


Family Feelings

by Chrissy24601



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: (don't ask), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempts at being romantic, Ch11 is less fluffy though, Christmas Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Kissing, Little Cosette, M/M, More Fluff, PTSD, Quast!vert being a father, Sheep on bicycles, Teeth-shattering fluff, Worried Valjean, angsty fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2017-12-24 11:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrissy24601/pseuds/Chrissy24601
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I heard several cries for more fluff on the valvert-ish end of the fandom. This is a stab in that general direction: fluffy minifills I wrote a while back for prompts requesting Quast!vert being a father to little Cosette, and that is slowly becoming a series of family life drabbles.</p><p>Rating upgraded to T because of on-screen kissing in presence of minor ;P</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kisses for me

**Author's Note:**

> This one was written for a prompt involving the song 'Save all your kisses for me'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With slight amendment to how it was posted on Makinghugospin, courtesy of Spiderfire who made a very valid comment!

Javert had never liked children. They were loud, messy, incoherent and above all disobedient. When he fell in love, he had believed one of the benefits of having fallen for a man was that the subject of children would never come up.

Except that he man he fell for had a daughter. An adopted daughter, but a daughter nonetheless. A young child, too, with big brown eyes that would gaze at him from above an innocent smile. When he had first moved in with his lover, it had taken Javert months to accept that where Cosette was concerned, that innocent smile was not a ruse to hide that she had been stealing cookies or other pastry-related items. She _was_ Valjean’s daughter, after all. But what was worse, as far as Javert was concerned, was that she was unnaturally fond of him. What he had done to deserve that attention, he didn’t know, but he was sure he didn’t want any of it.

That was a year ago. If people had told him then that she would start calling him ‘Father’, he would have glared at them. If they had told him that he would actually come to enjoy that she did, he would have had them arrested for ranting drunkenly in public.

But she did call him ‘Father’ with as much affection as she called Valjean ‘Papa’. And although he had never said it out loud, Javert loved it that she did.

Today was no different than other days. Javert’s rituals before going to his work were always the same, regardless of which shift he had. He could set his clock by every motion he went through. But after living under the same roof for so long, he wasn’t the only one to do so.

When he came out of the bathroom, showered and dressed, he would go to the kitchen to pack some sandwiches. Except that today the blue lunchbox already sat on the counter, perfectly packed with four sandwiches, prepared exactly the way he always did. He stared at them in confusion when two little arms hugged him from behind.

“Morning, Father,” said Cosette cheerfully, diving under his arm to come up in front of him.

He smiled down at her, stroking her hair with his. “Good morning, Cosette. Did you do that?” He nodded at the lunchbox.

The girl beamed at him. “I did!” Then she bit her lip. “Did I get it right?”

He made a point of checking each skewed, somewhat messy sandwich and knew he’d have excess butter glued to his gums every hour after lunchtime.  

“One hundred percent,” he replied. “Did Jean help you?”

“No,” she said reproachfully. Then she closed the lunchbox and put it in the bag he carried to work, in the exact compartment he always did.

“Thank you, Cosette.”

She hopped onto the counter and put her little arms around his neck. “If you don’t need to make lunch, that means you have a few more minutes before you go.”

“A few more minutes to spend on you, right?” he chided lightly.

“Of course! Pick me up?” He was about to say she was getting too big for that – she was nearly eight now – but before he could, Cosette jumped off the counter, clinging to Javert’s neck and trying to wrap her legs around his waist. He grunted and stooped under the sudden weight, but with his length, her dangling feet still didn’t touch the ground. “Cosette, you are getting far too heavy for this,” he grunted.

“Ow, c’mon, Father. Please?” Cosette whined, not letting go.

“Cosette! Leave Javert alone,” said Valjean sternly as he came into the kitchen. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for school, young lady?”

“Yes, Papa.” Reluctantly, the girl let herself drop. “Sorry, Father.” 

“That is all right, girl.” He couldn’t get mad at her. How could anyone? She was beautiful, kind, smart, clean and a perfect picture of obedience. Well, half of the time, anyway. The other half she was as rowdy as all children were wont to be, but he could forgive her that. If there even was anything to forgive in the first place.

He continued to pack his bag and put on his long coat. Cosette, who had been across the kitchen getting herself ready, stared with a glint in her eyes at the billowing coat.

Javert smirked. He knew what was coming, even before Cosette glanced sideways to see if her Papa wasn’t looking. Then she darted across the kitchen and delved in the folds of his coat, hiding under it.

“If you do not come out now,” he said in mock-warning, “I shall have to arrest you.”

Cosette giggled madly and pulled the panels of the coat tighter, daring him.

“Cosette, did you put on your coat yet?” Valjean demanded from the next room.

“Well, she put on _someone’s_ coat,” Javert called back, grinning at the wriggling mass behind him. A glance at the clock made his smile falter. “Cosette, darling, come out. I have to go now.”

“Owww.”

“Yes, come on. You need to get to school and I need to get to work.”

The little hands clinging to him were heartbreaking. “I don’t want to go,” she murmured into his uniform jacket. “I don’t want you to go, either.”

Javert sighed, but it was a gentle sigh. This, too, was a part of his ritual. Whether she didn’t want to go to school or didn’t want to go to bed, she would always protest whenever he left for work.

“I will see you tonight,” he promised, trying to lift the folds of his coat to get her to come out. “You know that.”

“Won’t you be home late again?” she whined, not letting go.

“If I am, I promise I will awake you to say goodnight.” He would. It was a promise he had failed to keep once, and she had been mad with him for three days after that.

Reluctantly, Cosette came out of hiding. “Promise?” she asked.

“Cosette!” Valjean called. “Time to go!”

“And I should really be going, too,” Javert added. “Be good today.”

“I will.”  She hugged him again. Then she puckered her lips and stood tiptoe, trying in vain to reach across their difference in height. Javert bend down enough for her to peck his cheek.

“See you tonight, Father,” she said.

As was their ritual, he kisses her hair in return.

“See you tonight, darling.”

 


	2. Going Soft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt requesting Quast!vert taking care of Cosette, and not at all sure how to handle a sick child.

By the light of a ‘My Little Pony’- lamp and an alarm clock that glared the time at him in bright red digits, Javert sat on Cosette’s bed, cradling her. He leaned against the wall with her in his lap, the two of them all bundled up in her blankets. He had his arms around her, but did not rock her or actively cuddle her. She was finally asleep and he was not going to risk waking her. He only dared to occasionally press a tender kiss to her hot brow.

She had woken up just after midnight, crying in pain and running a temperature. It had taken him nearly half an hour to calm her down sufficiently for her to tell him what was wrong. She kept clutching her right ear and had wailed loudly when he suggested that she should remove her hand so he could have a look. He had lost his patience with her, yelling at her to cooperate. He regretted that now. It wasn’t her fault that she was in too much pain to talk sensibly. Still, Valjean would have done a much better job of consoling their daughter, that much he was sure of.

Javert sighed. It was just his luck that Cosette should get ill right when Valjean was out of town for two days. What did he know about caring for a sick child? His own way of dealing with illness involved a great deal of painkillers and an overdose of stubbornness. He knew enough to understand that this was not the way to treat a child, but only barely. He wasn’t even sure if children Cosette’s age were supposed to take painkillers, never mind how many.

He could have gone to the bathroom, open the medicine cabinet and find out what it said on the package, but he hadn’t. The best he had been able to think of with Cosette crying her lovely brown eyes out was turn on the computer and Google her symptoms, with her on his lap. It was hard to type with a sick eight-year-old clutching your neck, but he had found enough information to conclude that she probably had an ear infection. Not serious enough to warrant a trip to the ER in the middle of the night, but he did resolve to call the doctor first thing in the morning.

That was still a few hours away, though. While behind the computer, she had stopped bawling. Perhaps it was because her ear hurt less when she put her head on his shoulder, or maybe it was merely the idea of being held that calmed her. Javert wasn’t sure, but he was glad for her that it worked. There was nothing as heart-wrenching as seeing his little girl cry in pain and not being able to do anything about it…

He kissed her forehead again and frowned. She was still far too warm to his liking. He tried not to worry, and failed. He pushed the blanket down a bit and stroked her burning cheek. She muttered against his hand. Javert winced slightly, hoping she would sleep on. She didn’t.

“Papa?” Cosette said softly.

“No, darling. Papa is away, remember? But I’m here.”

She opened her eyes halfway and looked at him. “Father?”

“Yes, Cosette?”

“You’re soft,” she mumbled, snuggling up against his chest and going back to sleep.

Javert stared at her little face, dumbfounded. Him, soft? He knew a lot of people who would disagree with that, Valjean included.

Yet here he was, tenderly holding his sick daughter in the middle of the night, overcome with worry for her. If that was to be considered soft, then Cosette was right. He smiled down at her and kissed her hair. Yes, let Inspector Javert be soft for tonight. There was plenty of time tomorrow to be stern and irreproachable again.

Only later did it occur to him that maybe she had merely meant to say that his flannel pyjama shirt felt soft to the touch.


	3. Bedshaped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Javert is the worst bed mate ever." He is. I pity Valjean.
> 
> Comes with [ artwork](http://chrissy-24601.tumblr.com/image/59514850354), too:

To Valjean, sleeping with his dear inspector was nothing short of an adventure.

That was _not_ because Javert’s shift schedule and insane work ethos compounded to him getting up or coming to bed at literally all hours. It was _not_ because the ever-correct policeman was confronted with enough sexually explicit material in his line of work to be surprisingly creative when it came to bed sports. It was _not even_ because he was eleven years younger than Valjean and still had the stamina to put all that creativity to practice in a single night.

No, it was simply because sharing a bed with Javert was like sleeping in a war zone.

They had a huge, king-sized bed. Officially it was for two people, but it could comfortably accommodate four. Valjean had insisted on getting a bed that big, hoping it would solve some of the issues that had arisen in the early months of their relationship, when two large men who had spend a lifetime sleeping alone tried to fit in a bed that was barely four foot across.

But the larger surface hadn’t put an end to the problems. While they theoretically had enough space each swim in the sheets to their heart’s content without ever touching the other, they invariably ended up in close contact. _Very_ close contact.

Valjean suspected that an undiagnosed separation anxiety on Javert’s part was to blame for that particular habit. How the man had managed to sleep by himself for fifty years was beyond him, because from the moment the deep, even breathing turned into a snore, the whole concept of ‘personal space’ was out the window.

Having lacked human touch for most of his life, Valjean was not averse to snuggling up beneath the covers - on the contrary! He loved it when Javert allowed him to cradle him, and he loved to lazily run his fingers through his lover’s long hair. It was soothing for them both. However, once they fell asleep, Javert would role this way and that; until he’d find Valjean and latch onto him like a vice. The latching on Valjean did not mind so much, but it rarely stopped there and repeatedly getting kneed in the ribs was _not_ his idea of snuggling.

That was another part of the problem: the nightmares. Or rather their consequences. In and of themselves, the bad dreams were not surprising. Valjean had his share of nightmares, too. With the kind of life they both had led, it would have been surprising if neither of them suffered hellish dreams on a semi-regular basis.

It was not so much the nightmares themselves as the fact that Javert was a very, well, _active_ dreamer.

After some research, Valjean had found out that a part of the brain’s sleep mode is to ‘shut down’ the body’s biological equivalent of motor relays. That is why people normally don’t move or talk in their sleep. But apparently, that shut-down could be imperfect, with all due consequences.

In Javert’s case, ‘imperfect’ didn’t even begin to cover it: he kicked, flailed, moaned, and even screamed in his sleep. More than once, Valjean had been rudely awoken by a stray hand in his face. Once he had punched back in reflex, and they had ended up grappling each other before either of them had been awake enough to realise who the other was. That night had been awkward at best…

And then there was the territorial conflict over the covers. The second half of his life, Valjean had been an avid believer in ‘share and share alike’. Javert, it turned out, was not. At least not where bed sheets and blankets were concerned. Admittedly with good reason.

Valjean had learned soon enough that something was inherently off about Javert’s perception of temperature: the man was almost always cold. Because of that, he had no trouble wearing his full uniform as well as a police-issue armoured vest and an overcoat in mid-summer, even on days when Valjean nearly suffered a heatstroke if he wore more than a thin t-shirt.   

That trait also came up in the bedroom. Eleven months out of twelve, Javert would complain about being cold until he had _all_ available blankets wrapped around himself. Valjean had resorted to letting him and pulling a spare blanket from the box under the bed as soon as Javert slept soundly. And even then Valjean knew he might wake up shivering, while Javert had confiscated _that_ blanket as well.

The other month in the year - the one when the nights were sweltering and the sheets would glue to your permanently sweat-covered skin – Javert would still insist on sleeping with at least two blankets. That was understandable, given his predisposition to feeling cold. However, inevitably, Valjean would wake in the middle of the night, sweating worse than before and with the weight of at least two blankets pressing down on him, while Javert lay sprawled across the mattress without so much as a sheet covering him.

Yet in all, Valjean felt his lover’s tumultuous bed behaviour was strangely endearing.

Javert did not agree. Although he couldn’t help what he did while asleep, he was deeply ashamed of it. The first time his screams had woken little Cosette, he had been so mortified that he’d volunteered for night shifts for the three consecutive nights. Valjean had put a lot of effort into convincing Javert that neither he nor Cosette minded, but he had never really succeeded. Too often, Javert resorted to leaving the bed in the middle of the night to sleep on the couch in the living room. Like he might have done tonight, if not for a considerable complication.

“I’m really sorry, Jean,” Javert said, pouring them both a mug of strong coffee to battle the bags under their eyes. “I have no idea what came over me.”

“Same thing as always,” Valjean replied with a shrug. “It’s nothing.” Well, nothing much, at any rate. He removed the ice pack he was holding to his cheek long enough to gently feel how big that bruise was going to be.

“You say that every time, but enough is enough. Starting tonight, I will be sleeping in the study.”

Valjean stared in shock. “What? No, you can’t!”

“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic. I’m not leaving you.”

“You are. You intend to leave my bed.”

Javert sighed. “I do not want to, but it is better that way…”

“Now who’s being melodramatic, eh?” Valjean reached across the table and squeezed his lover’s hand. “We have spent too much time apart already, and I’m not letting you leave. I _like_ it when you sleep beside me.”

The incredulous look Javert gave him was priceless. “Did I hit you so hard it scrambled your brains?”

“What do I care if you steal my covers?” Valjean exclaimed. “You always snuggle up to me, so I’m hardly ever cold anyway. And if I am, I still have my not-so-secret box of blankets.”

“I did not just steal the covers last night,” Javert said darkly.

“No, and it was my fault for trying to wake you from a nightmare without keeping my distance. From what I made out, you were dreaming of that bastard Thénardier, so I don’t blame out for taking a swing.”

Javert gritted his teeth. “Nightmares are no excuse.”

“You were always too hard on yourself,” Valjean scoffed. “So you lash out in your sleep. And then? I’m more concerned that you might hurt yourself than that you might hurt me. This,” he pointed at his tender cheek, “was sheer dumb luck.”

“But I _hurt_ you!”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I—what?”

Valjean smiled at his lover’s dumb look. “It’s only a bruise, Javert. It’ll be gone in a few days, and it is not nearly as painful as the idea that you don’t want to sleep beside me because of it. That you wouldn’t be there to wake me from a nightmare, or to comfort me. That I can’t tell if you’ve come home safely after a late shift, because I cannot feel you come into bed with me.”

“But—“ Javert stopped when a calloused finger against his lips hushed him up.

“No ‘but’. Those things are very valuable to me, _mon coeur._ Much more than you realise.” He leaned over the table and replaced his finger with a light kiss. “And well worth the occasional black eye.”


	4. Those Three Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Javert busts his bad knee and Valjean hears the words he loves to hear most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Combined fill for two prompts at LMKM, one asking for Javert having a trouble saying those three special words to Valjean, and the other asking for a story featuring the infamous 'Javert Knee' that at least Roger Allam and Philip Quast suffer from.

 

“Father!” Cosette yelled happily as she ran down the school yard and into Javert’s arms. He was rarely the one to pick her up after school, and she launched herself at him as if she was five years old rather than eight. Before he knew it, she had her arms around his neck and pulled her legs up to make him lift her. He might have, too, if not for her shoe connecting hard with his bad knee. He couldn’t help the little cry he gave at the bolt of pain shooting through his leg.

He put the girl down as quickly as he could without actually dropping her.

“Aww, please carry me?” she begged, completely ignoring the fact that she was no longer the size to be carried around. Javert was too preoccupied to remind her.  

“Not today, darling,” he said with a wince, willing the pain to subside. It didn’t. “Come on, let’s go home.”

Cosette’s school was not far from where they lived, less than ten minutes on foot. But when they were halfway, Javert noticed he had unintentionally started to limp. Damn! He had hoped it wouldn’t be so bad. It was just a little girl’s foot, for crying out loud. Still he was a realist if nothing else. He’d had that old wound act up before and he knew from experience that it would take several days to stop aching. A few days and a boatload of painkillers to get through them. Just his luck…

By the time he put his key in the front door, his jaw was wired shut. The last two hundred yards he hadn’t said a word, but Cosette as chatting away and didn’t notice his taut features. Valjean, however, did the instant he poked his head from the kitchen and saw Javert’s stance.

Javert for his part ushered their daughter into the kitchen before Valjean could say a word. She immediately drew her papa’s attention, being hungry and thirsty as she always was after school. He tried to tune out the words if not the sound of her voice as he lowered himself into the nearest chair at the dinner table.

His knee already refused to bend properly, and it took some effort to get both his legs under the table. Without his weight resting on the joint, it didn’t hurt as much as it had walking the distance from school to home. An ice pack would be a good idea, but wasn’t likely to do much good anymore. The damage was done.

 As soon as Cosette had been appeased with an offering of lemonade and peanut butter sandwiches, Valjean came out of the kitchen with a glass of water, two little white tablets and a towel full of something, probably ice cubes.

“What happened?” he asked as he watched Javert swallow the pills and down all of the water in one go.

“Cosette got a bit overenthusiastic. Kicked me right below the kneecap.” He saw Valjean’s eyes widen. “It was an accident, Jean! Just an accident. It’s not that bad. When those painkillers kick in, I will be just fine.”

“No, you won’t. You will just overexert it and make it worse,” said Valjean as he handed Javert the cold towel, but there was no reproach in his voice. He sighed. “I told her a thousand times to take it easy with that leg of yours.”

Javert tried not to wince at the cold of the ice against his swollen knee. “She is only child, Jean. I do not hold it against her, and neither should you.”

“Hm. I don’t care what reputation you have at the station. Sometimes you are simply too good.” He pecked his partner’s cheek. “I love you.”

Javert grunted a reply, one that was inarticulate even to himself.

The rest of the afternoon, Javert did not move from his seat. The ice melted. As he had expected, it didn’t make much of a difference. After dinner, Cosette chided him that it was his turn to do the dishes, but Valjean quickly took her mind off that little injustice by telling her she could watch television until bedtime. Javert gave him a thankful nod, but was otherwise mute with pain.

His whole leg hurt the way it had after that bullet had first hit him. He desperately wanted more painkillers, but he knew Valjean was very strict with dosing medicine. If he wanted more paracetamol – or better yet, something stronger – he’d have to go get them himself. And while there was a packet of paracetamol in the kitchen, the heavier stuff was upstairs, in the bathroom cabinet.

He managed to bide his time until Valjean brought Cosette to bed. He was all but screaming in agony by now, but if he’d gone up sooner, their girl would see him limp and ask what was wrong, and he no longer trusted his mood to remain patient with her. So he waited until he heard Valjean’s footsteps come down again after bringing their daughter in bed before pushing himself up to a stand. He instantly regretted it.

“Sit still, you dolt,” Valjean said, putting a hand on Javert’s shoulder and slowly pushing him back in his seat. “You didn’t think I was blind, did you? Let me get you a glass for these,” and he put down two capsules with ‘400’ printed in tiny black letters across each.

“Bless you,” Javert whimpered gratefully as he took the heavy duty painkillers with the glass of water Valjean handed him.

“You’re welcome. I could have let you crawl up there yourself, but then God knows how many of those you would have taken.”

He did have a point there, Javert had to admit. But he didn’t. He only took the man’s hand in his, squeezing just too hard when a new shot of pain ripped through his leg, all the way to his hip. It was strangely comforting when Valjean squeezed back just as hard.

“Of course it’s out of the question that you should be going to work tomorrow.”

Javert shot him a foul look. “I’m not calling in sick!”

“Oh?” said Valjean with a calm but severe voice. “Javert, you cannot walk. As it is, you can barely stand up. How do you expect to perform your duties like this?”

“A few more painkillers—“

“That won’t solve anything. Whether crippled or drugged out of your mind, you will not be fit for duty tomorrow. It’s that simple.”

“I’m _not_ a cripple!” Javert protested.

Valjean shook his head. “If you overexert that leg too much every time it plays up, you _will_ end up cripple. And I love you too much to let you do that to yourself.” He sighed when he saw his proud partner cowed by those words. “When will you finally accept that? That I love you?”

“I know you do,” Javert growled. “You tell me often enough.”

“Not often enough, apparently, if you still don’t believe it.” He smiled and kissed Javert’s hair. “I love you.”

Javert leaned into the touch, but did not reply. He never did. Valjean no longer even expected a reply, which was somehow more painful than that blasted leg of his.

“The crap you put up with,” Javert muttered, rubbing his hands over his face. “Very well, you win. I will take up sick leave for a day or two.” He owed the man that much.

Of course two days would not be enough and they both knew it, but Valjean didn’t argue. He only nodded. “We’ll make it an early night then. Tell me when the painkillers are working and I’ll help you to bed.”

“Not yet,” said Javert miserably. “It is too early still. I won’t be able to get much sleep tonight, anyway.”

Valjean smiled warmly at him. “I know, _mon coeur_. That’s why I’ve got my laptop and half a dozen DVD’s waiting on the bedside table. Now, let me see how bad it is.”

Pretty bad, as it turned out. Javert cursed and growled under his breath as Valjean touched his knee through the fabric of his uniform trousers. Even without seeing it, he could tell the swelling was considerable, now preventing him from bending the joint at all.

“Well, it’s not worse than last time,” Valjean concluded eventually. Javert let his head fall back with a sigh of exasperation. That last time, it had taken nearly a week before he could walk properly. Valjean patted him gently on his good leg. “Now, how about some tea?”

It took about an hour for the painkillers to take their full effect. All that time, Javert was turned in on himself. Valjean didn’t pry. The man probably put it down to the pain. That was true, but it was another pain than the one crippling his body.

What wounded him more than physical pain was this man’s patience, his consideration. Providing comfort, pills and tea; giving Javert what he needed without being asked. Oh, Javert knew very well what it was. Valjean named it liberally, every day, whenever they were together. Without asking anything in return. Without _receiving_ anything in return…

“Ready to brave the stairs?”

Valjean’s deep voice drew Javert from his cocoon. He nodded dejectedly, pushing himself up to a stand. The painkillers worked like a charm: he barely felt the stings as he put his foot down. But he knew better than to put any weight on it. On cue, Valjean offered his shoulder and arm to help him to the hallway.

The stairs themselves were tiring but not difficult. The stairwell was narrow enough to find support on both sides and work his way up. But once he got to the landing, he was breathing hard for the effort.

Valjean helped him to get prepared for bed without a single complaint or sign of annoyance. Only when Javert cursed three ways from Sunday when he was being divested of his trousers did Valjean comment that he should try to keep his voice down for Cosette’s sake. And by the time Javert finally lay in bed, it was Valjean who pulled the duvet over him and tucked him in before getting under the covers himself.

“Do you still want to watch a film?” Valjean asked, “Or do you want to go to sleep? You look dead tired.”

He didn’t have the patience for a film. He wished he did, but he knew he’d only get fed up with it before the opening credits were done. But he wasn’t alone in this bed, in this house. “Whatever you want,” he said, looking away from the man. His partner. It shouldn’t be so hard to call Valjean that, should it?

Beside him, Valjean sat up and pulled the laptop onto his lap. “’Robin Hood’?” he suggested, holding up a DVD. Javert shrugged, which earned him a hand stroking his cheek. “I won’t hold it against you if you fall asleep, you know.”

“I should be so lucky,” Javert grunted despite himself, but then grimaced. “Damn. Sorry…”

“Sorry? Whatever for?”

“For being such a grumpy bastard all the time.”

Valjean smiled. “I wouldn’t have you any other way,” he said as he woke the computer from the standby-mode and put the DVD in the tray. “I love you for who you are. Nothing more, nothing less.”

That twisted the knife in Javert’s heart only deeper. Ignoring the dull pain enveloping his leg, he shifted position until he could put his head against Valjean’s arm. On the computer screen, the film began to play.

“Hmm?” Valjean asked, turning down the already all but muted sound. “Did you say something?”

Javert buried his face deeper into Valjean’s skin, muttering something inaudible.

“I can’t hear you like this,” Valjean chuckled, pulling his arm free and stroking Javert’s long hair. “Now, say again?”

“…I love you, too.”

Javert’s commanding voice was inexpressibly small as he whispered those words. He felt as if he had walked into a gunfight with no clothes and a bull’s eye painted on his chest. He sought to hide away in the pillows, under the covers, anywhere; awaiting the fatal bullet as the hand on his head stilled.

Then that same hand found his chin and forced him out of hiding. “I know you do,” Valjean said softly, his voice thick. “But it means to the world to me to hear you say it.”

 


	5. Downpour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Javert gets very upset when he comes home to Cosette and Valjean playing in a downpour. Or: Javert needs to lighten up. 
> 
> Warning for possible OOC-ness. The fluff made me do it!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Spiderfire](http://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderfire/pseuds/spiderfire) for prompting this! And if Cosette sounds more like a six-year-old than an eight-year-old, that's because my reference material won't be turning seven until this winter ;)

The sunny summer days of the last few weeks had faded into the grey-skied onset of autumn. Rain cascaded down Javert’s windscreen faster than the wipers could clear it away as he drove home from work. Today had prominently featured paperwork and too many meetings, which always left him tired and grouchy. All he wanted was to get home, have a decent meal and a good cup of coffee, but this weather was murder on city traffic and the commute took him twice as long as usual. By the time he turned into the street they lived on, Javert was hungry, annoyed and short-tempered even by his own standards.

Out of nowhere, two children in bright yellow ponchos darted across the road without a second glance. Javert had not been driving much faster than walking pace, but nevertheless his foot rammed down on the brake pedal. The car rocked as the wheels stopped abruptly, although it slid another two feet on the wet road before coming to a complete standstill. The children looked up, but didn’t interrupt their game.

Foot still on the brakes, Javert took a few deep breaths after barely avoiding every sensible motorist’s nightmare. But just as he was about to let the car nudge the last fifty yards to the driveway, at least half a dozen screaming kids surrounded him. They were all wearing the same yellow rain capes and red rubber boots, looking – and sounding – like they came straight from a Saturday morning cartoon.

One of them was his daughter.

Cosette knocked on his window with both hands, gesturing him to roll it down. With a heavy sigh, he did.

“Father, father! Look, Papa bought us rain capes and boots, and now we’re playing ‘pirates at sea’! We even built a fortress!”

Javert opened his mouth, only to shut it again. Yes, that sounded like something Valjean would do. Having more money than he knew how to spend, his partner had developed this habit of buying toys for the children in the neighbourhood. Javert never objected. It was Jean’s money and thus his to spend. But this idea did not go down so well.

“Cosette, this is no weather to be playing outside! Get back to the house.”

“But Father, Papa said we—“

“I don’t care! It’s cold and I can tell from here that you are wet through despite the cape. Now go inside! I will be there in a second.”

Cosette frowned at him. “But Papa said I could play until dinner was ready!”

“Then I will need to have a word with your Papa! Now do as you are told!” He rolled up the window before she could protest more. Through the rain he could see her crossing her arms defiantly as she stomped back to the sidewalk, jumping in every single puddle on her path.

The other children had scattered again, and Javert slowly drove up to the driveway beside their house. The driveway, however, was blocked by a broad man in a dull green rain cape and ditto boots.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” Javert growled at himself.

Valjean stepped aside to let Javert park the car, waving happily at him before turning to Cosette. As Javert turned the ignition key and killed the engine, he saw in his rear view mirror how Valjean met up with Cosette, took the girl by the hand and walked with her towards the little playground across the road.

“Oh, for the love of—!”

Today he had been forced to accept the idiocy of meetings and colleagues and numbskulls whose driver’s licences melted at the first drop of rain, but enough was enough. Cursing loudly, Javert all but tore from the car, slamming the door with so much force that Valjean stopped and turned to see what was going on.  

“What the _Hell_ do you think you’re doing, Valjean!” Javert barked across the street, getting angrier by the second as fat raindrops soaking into his uniform and his hair added to the frustrations of the day.

“We won’t be long,” said Valjean apologetically. “Cosette and her friends built a mud fortress in the big sandbox this afternoon. She just wanted to show it.”

‘Show it’ in Cosette’s terms meant ‘play with it’ and Valjean always indulged her. “Cosette!” Javert hollered at the top of his parental voice. “I told you to go inside, young lady!That means no stalling for time and no ‘showing’ Papa anything!”

“But the rain will wash it away if I don’t show him now,” Cosette complained.

“ _Inside, I said!_ ”

Cosette’s lip quivered and she leaned into her Papa, who patted her hand. “I think we’d better do as Javert says,” Valjean soothed.

“But the rain will destroy what we made,” the girl whined as she trudged after him.

“Next time you can build an even bigger fortress to show me.” Valjean gave his partner a crooked smile. “Tough day at the station?”

“Not a word,” Javert growled, getting out his keys to open the front door. “You are both soaked to the skin.”

Valjean shrugged as they stepped into the hallway. “We’re not as wet as you are now. These capes are quite good, actually.”

“I don’t want to hear it, Jean! I expected better of you, certainly at your age. Now capes off, boots off, and get yourself to the bathroom. Both of you!”

“Do I have to take a bath?” asked Cosette as Javert ushered her up the stairs.

“Yes, you need to get warm before you catch a cold.” Javert glared over his shoulder at Valjean, “or worse. Honestly, playing outside in a downpour? What _were_ you thinking?!”

“In my defence, the children did have a lot of fun.”

“Of course they did, but that is no reason to let them!”

While Cosette and Valjean wriggled out of their clingy wet clothes, Javert turned on the taps of both the bath and the shower so the water could run warm. In his mind, having a full-length bath and a separate shower stall had always been an unnecessary luxury. Right now he was damn grateful to have both. “Wet clothes in the laundry basket, Cosette in the bath and you in the shower.”

Enthusiastic at the prospect of more water, the girl got out of her – arguably still dry – underwear and hopped into bath.

“Cosette. Clothes,” Javert snapped, pointing irritably at the various items she had left scattered on the bathroom floor.

“Oh, sorry,” she said, but Valjean had already gathered her clothes and his and put them in the big laundry basket. Javert rolled his eyes, failing to be in any way surprised.

“It was harmless fun,” said Valjean, running his fingers through one of Javert’s sideburns. “It didn’t start raining this hard until the last ten minutes or so. We were just about to call it a day when you came home.”

The words were meant to reassure him, Javert knew, but his angry moods never dissipated that quickly. “It was still reckless,” he growled. “Kids running wild while cars can’t see a damn thing with that rain, you getting cold to the bone – get in that damn shower, will you?”

Valjean pecked his partner’s cheek before stepping under the hot spray. “Why do you think I made sure to buy brightly coloured capes? If they were going to be playing outside anyway, the least I could do is make sure they were all clearly visible.”

Javert made a face. Damn it all but of course Valjean would have thought of that. Jean had this special brand of recklessness that drove Javert insane with worry, only to discover afterwards that it was never that reckless to begin with. He rubbed a hand over his face and stomped out of the bathroom, tugging off his sodden uniform jacket as he went.

“Papa?” he heard Cosette say over the splashing of water.

“Yes, Cosette?” Valjean called back.

“Why didn’t Father want us to finish playing ‘pirates at sea’?”

Hearing the dejection in their daughter’s voice, Javert felt his anger turn on himself. She and Jean had been having a good time this afternoon, and he’d spoiled it by getting angry at them. It didn’t solve anything, but neither could he help himself. Even now he was still resentful.

“Javert is just worried that you might get sick being out in the rain that long,” he heard Valjean say. “He’s very grumpy now, but that’s really just because he is scared you might have gotten hurt.”

In the bedroom, Javert paused searching his closet for a fleece sweater and sweatpants. Scared? Maybe, but if so, he was too tetchy right now to admit it.

“Papa?”

The sound of water on the tiles changed as Valjean moved under the shower’s spray. “Yes, dear?”

“Is that why you yell at the stove or the freezer when Father is late and he doesn’t answer his cell phone? Because you’re scared he might have gotten hurt?”

Javert froze. By the lack of response from the shower, so did Valjean. For a moment, anyway. “Yes, Cosette, I worry about him all the time,” said Valjean slowly. Then the taps of the shower closed and only sound of the water filling the bath remained. Javert didn’t move.

“Why?” Cosette asked.

“When you love someone, you worry for them. That is why Javert worries about you.”

“And about you, Papa!”

“Oh? You think so?” Valjean gasped quasi-aghast. He must have made a comical face to match, because Cosette dissolved into a fit of giggles.

Perhaps it was the clear ringing of her voice, or the image he got of Valjean making her laugh, or the whole situation, but somehow Javert couldn’t bring himself to stay angry any longer. “Cosette, darling,” he called across the hallway, “turn off the tap when the water level—“

“—reaches my belly button,” Cosette sighed in childish exasperation. “Yes, Father. I always do that.”

Her definition of ‘always’ came closer to ‘whenever she remembered’, but he didn’t feel like arguing the point when at least bathwater was both warmer and cleaner than rain puddles. No, he had bigger fish to fry. Cosette playing in bath didn’t provide as much privacy as Cosette vast asleep in bed, but it was enough for what he had in mind.

The moment Valjean walked into the bedroom wearing nothing but a bathrobe, Javert pulled the man into his arms for a long, deep kiss. Jean murmured in token protest, but eagerly kissed him back. Their tongues touched, gently and nothing like the intense battles they’d wage in the heat of passion. That would have to wait until tonight. For now, all Javert wanted was to say ‘sorry’ without words. So he did.

“Wow,” Valjean breathed when he was at last released. “What did I do to deserve that?”

Javert smirked, nuzzling Valjean’s white beard. “That’s for worrying about me as much as I do about you,” he muttered, stealing another kiss. “Because I worry about you very, _very_ much.”

Valjean chuckled. “Is that so? Well, then it is a good thing I love you, too, don’t you think?”

“Very good…”

Caught up in another wordless exchange, neither of them heard the splash of water or the little wet footsteps coming to the bedroom. “Papa, where is the little blue boat? I want to play with the little bl— ugh, are you two kissing again?”


	6. Of Sheep and Dead Hedgehogs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Javert must deal with being a single parent for two days, the aftermath of Chapter 5's downpour, and Cosette's love for a sheep on a bicycle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More h/c fluff and Javert suffering, as per several requests. Strangely, writing this was either a psychic foresight or a self-fulfilling prophecy, but this chapter pretty much sums up my last week. 
> 
> Warning: Bad parenting and teeth-shattering domestic fluff.

Today had been Hell. Incessantly bad weather plaguing his shift, that Javert could deal with. Worse was that Valjean was out to a congress for two days. That meant Javert was left behind to take care of their daughter and run the household. He wasn't very good at either. Dealing with armed criminals was easier, as far as he was concerned.

The first task consisted of keeping their bouncing eight-year-old in check and safe. That he could do, especially since she’d come down with a cold after playing in the rain a few days ago and as a consequence had been a little less bouncy since.

Regarding his second task, he hadn’t even tried: between getting Cosette to school, getting himself to work and doing his job despite the splitting headache that had been torturing him since the moment Valjean left the house, he barely remembered to go home on time to pick Cosette up at the neighbour’s, let alone get the groceries they needed. Any household chore beyond that wasn’t even on his radar.

As he drove away from the station that afternoon, he called the local pizza parlour. Normally he was very strict about not calling while driving, hands free or otherwise, but today the prospect of dealing with a hungry and nagging Cosette was more daunting. He asked for a salami and ham pizza to be delivered half an hour later, by which time he hoped to be home.

Twenty minutes later he pulled up in the driveway. He put up the collar of his coat against the rain as he ran across the street and rang the doorbell beneath the curly brass plate announcing that this was the residence of Madame Bellefleur. Javert stifled a sneeze in his sleeve as he waited for their elderly neighbour to answer.

The door opened at last. “Ah, m’sieur,” the old woman cheered when she saw recognised him. “Cosette, dear, your father is here!”

“Sorry I’m late,” he said as they waited while Cosette leapt into the hallway to gather her things.

“Oh, don’t worry, m’sieur Javert. I know you are a busy man, and Cosette is such a sweetheart. It’s no trouble at all to have her here a few hours.” She looked at the girl. “Have you got everything, dear?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“Good, good. I will see you tomorrow after school then. Bye, dear.”

“Bye, Madame!”

Javert nodded a ‘thank you’ and hurried Cosette to their own front door. She was chatting to him about Madame Bellefleur and what they’d done and school and that she was hungry.

“Dinner will be here in a few minutes,” Javert told her as they got out of their wet jackets.

Cosette blinked. “’Be here’?” Her eyes began to shine. “Does that mean we’re having--?”

“Yes, I ordered pizza. Your favourite.”

Valjean rarely let his two bottomless pits indulges in junk food, and Cosette was so delighted that she all but sat on the doormat until the delivery boy arrived. “Just one?” she asked with a disappointed whine when she finally stood by the coffee table, holding the warm cardboard box in her hands.

“It’s all yours,” Javert answered as he let himself fall onto the sofa.

“Don’t you want any?”

“I...” He quirked a smile. “I had something on the way home.” Not true, but she didn’t need to know that.

The smell of fat and burnt meat made him nauseous, but he didn’t have to suffer it for long: Cosette wolfed down the pizza as if she hadn’t been fed in days. Quite a feat, since he was certain she’d had plenty of cookies and crisps at Madame Bellefleur’s.

After the pizza box had been disposed of – today’s equivalent of doing the dishes – he allowed Cosette to play on the game computer. Another thing that Valjean didn’t permit on school nights and the girl couldn’t believe her luck. Javert tuned out the noise of the game and dozed with his arm draped over his eyes, stumbling awake only when Cosette shook his arm as she guiltily confessed that it was already half an hour past her bedtime.

With shoes full of lead, he followed her up the stairs to get her ready for bed.

“Cwu A eeve a swowee?” Cosette asked with a mouth full of toothbrush. Javert rolled his eyes. “It’s late, Cosette, and you got to play on the Playstation.”

She batted her eyes. “Pweeese?”

In the end he was too tired to put up a fight and sat down on her bed, opening her favourite book while Cosette snuggled up under the covers. Usually it was Jean who put her to bed, but Cosette always tried to badger Javert into reading to her. Something about his deep, sonorous voice, Jean had told him. If so, she probably wouldn’t mind that tonight it was a tad deeper still.

Javert’s throat felt as if he’d tried to swallow a dead hedgehog, but he still put up the effort to tell Cosette of the sheep who wanted to learn how to ride a bicycle. It was a complete nonsense story, but she loved it. Especially the bit where the sheep cycled through a dark wood, getting more and more scared of the howling wolf in the shrubs. As per usual, he let the tension built until she sat up straight in bed, a grin of anticipation on her face for the moment she loved best: when his voice suddenly dropped low as the wolf jumped out of the shrubs… to ask the terrified sheep if he, too, could have a go on the bicycle.

It had Cosette in stitches every time, and tonight was no exception. She giggled and ducked back under the blankets as he snapped the book shut. "Thanks, Father." She stifled a yawn. "Read it to me again tomorrow?"

"We'll see. Tomorrow Papa is back, remember?"

"I know, but he isn't as good at reading as you." She pecked his cheek when he bent over her. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, darling," Javert murmured as he kissed her hair.

As soon as he pulled the door not-quite shut behind him, Javert leaned against the nearest wall, shoulders sagging. His head threatened to fly away and his body ached all over. Maybe he would feel better if he ate something after all, but having talked for several minutes straight, his sore throat stung even more than it had. The idea of pushing anything resembling solid food past that hedgehog was far from appealing and he wasn’t hungry enough to try.

In the end he settled for making coffee. The rain clattered against the windows and the autumn wind howled around the house as he waited for the machine to brew him a cup. He shivered. The heating was on, but somehow the house wouldn't get warm. Or perhaps he was just cold because he was tired.

While he waited for his coffee to cool a little to appease his hedgehog-logged throat, he flipped through the TV channels. It was a regular Thursday night: sixty channels and nothing worth watching. Not even some detective show he could yell at for getting the procedures all wrong.

By the time the clock chimed half past nine, he decided to call it a night. By nature he thrived after sundown, but not today. His eyes were slipping shut, he was cold and he was bored. Hopefully if he went to sleep now, that headache would have cleared up by morning, too.

The coffee on the table stayed behind, untouched and stone cold.

Curled up tightly under the covers, Javert endured the night. For the first few hours, even pulling Jean's side of the blankets on top of his own didn’t get him warm, and not long after the alarm clock jumped to a bright red ‘04.00’, he was sweating so much that his pyjama’s stuck to his skin. By the time he had to get up, he felt as if he hadn't slept at all. Blinking blearily, he nevertheless hauled himself out of bed and into the shower. Even the hot water didn’t make him feel better, or warmer.

Scrubbed and dressed, he had to urge Cosette on constantly to eat her sandwiches. His own breakfast consisted of a full day's dose of painkillers. That did nothing for his stomach, but half an apple and a glass of water was all he could force on himself.

He'd dropped Cosette off at school in the pouring rain, praying for the medication to kick in. Eventually they did and he felt marginally more like himself as he drove to the police station to begin his shift.

By lunchtime the returning headache forced him to mooch a couple of aspirins off one of his colleagues. Outside, the rain came down in sheets. He was silently grateful that Commissaire Dupont had assigned him to do paperwork today, although he suspected that this last-minute change to his schedule had been induced by the bags under his eyes. Either way, coffee, painkillers and an assortment of sweets from the vending machine kept him going through the day.

Just after three o’clock, his mobile phone beeped: a text message from Jean, saying his flight had landed. Javert smiled faintly as he typed a 'good. love you' back. Fortunately he felt a lot better than he had, because when he got home, he intended to make Valjean feel every bit of how much he’d been missed. That would have to wait until after little girls’ bedtime, of course, but until then he wouldn’t have to deal with Cosette on Madame Bellefleur’s sugar cookies alone. Yes, the world looked decidedly brighter to Javert. Now all it needed was for that bloody rain to stop.

But three hours later, that budding good mood had been crushed underfoot. The medication had worn off, and Javert felt colder and more miserable than he had all day. He had to drag himself from his desk into the car and from the car into the house. His head pounded and his legs felt as if they would drop off at the hips if he didn't sit down soon. The smell of dinner being cooked washed over him when he stepped inside, making his stomach turn.

"Father, father! Look at what Papa brought me!" Cosette chirped as she bounced down the stairs, pointing at the disgustingly pink t-shirt she was wearing over her sweater.

"Lovely, darling," he muttered without watching. Cosette didn't notice, and if she did, she was too happy with the gift to care.

Javert stumbled into the living room, Cosette in tow. The girl chattered at the speed of a lingering sugar rush about how she'd been baking cupcakes with Madame Bellefleur and how she had saved two of the six for her fathers. He ignored her.

At the commotion, Valjean appeared from the kitchen. "Javert, you’re early!" he said, beaming at his partner. "You made it just in time for casserole."

"No dinner for me, thanks...." Javert sighed, one hand on the nearest chair for support as Valjean kissed his cheek. “How was your trip?”

Valjean didn’t answer. He only frowned, regarded Javert closely, and then reached up to kiss Javert’s forehead. "Ah. I see," he said. “When did that start?”

“Right after you left.”

“And you went to work regardless?”

Javert frowned at Valjean’s reprimanding tone. “No reason not to, if all it took was a few aspirins to fix me up.” He coughed into his hand. “Although I suspect Dupont was on to me…”

“I wouldn’t think much of our police’s deduction skills if he did not,” Valjean said, shaking his head. “Right, if you want nothing to eat, can I get you anything else?”

“More painkillers would be great,” Javert said, suppressing a shiver.

“Sorry, but no. Knowing you, you have far too many already.” Valjean gave him a commiserate smile. “Why don’t you get yourself to bed? I'll make you tea in a minute."

"Something cold would be better, maybe..."

"Sore throat?"

Javert nodded. Dead or not, that accursed hedgehog had only gotten bigger.

“I know just the thing for that. Now get into bed. I will bring it right up to you."

The climb up the stairs took more effort than it should. Bracing himself, Javert pretended not to feel the cold in his body as he got out of his uniform and into his pyjama’s. Still, he grabbed one of Valjean’s oversized sweatshirts and put that on as well before climbing into bed. He pulled the covers up to his chin, knees drawn up to his chest as he lay on his side and waited for Valjean to bring up whatever the man had in mind.

Some time later – minutes? Hours? – he woke to an uncomfortable pressure in his ear and a shrill beep. “Hmm?”

“Did I wake you?” said Valjean’s voice somewhere above him. “Sorry about that. I only want to make sure you aren’t coming down with anything alarming.”

“’s just flu,” Javert slurred sleepily, torn between being irritated or comforted by his partner’s fussing. “Lemme sleep if off and I’ll be fine…”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Valjean as his fingers brushed a strand of hair from Javert’s face. “I brought you some cold lemonade. It’s on the nightstand.”

Javert muttered a ‘thank you’ and buried himself deeper under the covers. A cold drink might wash the spikes from this throat, but the rest of him was finally warming up and he wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardize that.

The next time he woke, he was hot. Too hot. His back protested as he sat up to struggle out of the sweatshirt. Then he quickly got back under the covers, only to crane his head at the sound of voices on the landing.

“No, Cosette. Javert’s asleep, and it’s time for you to go to bed, too.”

“But Father said he would read to me tonight.”

Javert let his head drop onto the pillow. He’d promised no such thing, but Cosette was a master at converting anything less than an outright ‘no’ into a sacred promise.

“He’s ill, love,” said Valjean patiently. “He can’t read to you tonight.”

Cosette’s dejection was audible. “Can I at least go and say goodnight?”

Valjean sighed. “Very well, but don’t wake him, okay?”

“Okay!”

“Cosette, leave the book—“

But Javert already saw the light from the landing grow brighter as the door opened and Cosette sneaked into their bedroom. “Father?” she whispered when she stood beside him.

“Hey, darling,” he muttered. He glanced at the alarm clock. “Bedtime, is it?”

“Yeah.” She shuffled closer. In the semi-darkness, he could see she had something rectangular clutched to her chest. “Papa says you’re ill,” she added warily.

“I am,” he admitted, to himself as much as to her.

“Why?”

He chuckled, wincing when the hedgehog stung his throat in protest. “That happens sometimes,” he said. “But dragging you and Jean out of the rain the other day probably hasn’t helped.”

“Oh.” Her head drooped. “Sorry?”

He reached up and patted her arm. “These things happen, Cosette. Don’t worry about it.”

Evidently she did, because she climbed onto the bed and cuddled up to him in wordless apology. But as soon as she lay down beside him, she bolted upright again.

“I know! If you can’t read to me because you’re ill, shall I read to you instead?”

The bedroom door opened further. “Cosette, that is quite enough now,” Valjean said gravely.

“It’s all right, Jean,” said Javert as he flipped the switch that turned on the reading lamp on the nightstand. “So, what story do you want to read then?” Bouncing on the edge of the mattress, she showed him the cover of the book she’d been clutching. He smirked. No surprise there.

Cosette glanced over her shoulder. “Papa, do you want to listen, too?”

For a moment, Valjean frowned, making a point of checking his watch.

“Please, Papa?”

“I don’t think this is a good idea, love. Javert needs—“He stopped when he saw that Javert pulled up his legs to make room on the bed for his partner to sit with them. Valjean exhaled deeply. “You two are impossible,” he chided lightly as he came over and sat down by the footboard of the bed.

Satisfied, Cosette opened the book in her lap and began to read out loud.

“Once upon a time, there was a flock of sheep that lived in the valley. And one of the sheep was named Jack…”

Valjean and Javert listened to Cosette told them the overly familiar story, doing her best to imitate her father’s intonation and managing very well for a girl her age. As Jack the Sheep found the bicycle and learned how to ride it, Valjean found Javert’s leg and gently stroked it through the covers. Javert gave his partner a tired smile over Cosette’s head. This was how it was supposed to be: the three of them together.

As the sheep's adventures progressed, Javert’s eyes gradually slipped shut, and by the time Cosette came to the end of the story and turned to her father to help out with the deep growl, the old wolf himself was already vast asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who are curious, Cosette's book actually exists: "Jaap Schaap" (Jack the Sheep) by Leendert Jan Vis is a Dutch children's book (I'd include a link, but they're all in Dutch and I can't find whether it has been translated).


	7. Quiet Silent Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Javert never enjoyed Christmas. This year, he has every reason to swallow his reluctance, if only for the sake of those he loves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Darkhorse's LMKM prompt requesting an overload of Christmass fluff involving Quast!vert. Of course, I couldn't resist. Hope this fits the bill. Enjoy!
> 
> Minor warning for Javert being Javert and therefore bluntly stating opinions that people may find hurtful. Please don't take offense; he'll come around ;)

Javert did not appreciate the holiday season. As long as he could remember, he found the whole thing a damn nuisance that he tried to avoid as best he could. The music was infantile, the decorations gaudy, the commercial overload sickening and the original reason reduced to plump ceramic babies in a manger. Only one thing was worth tolerating colleagues talking about presents, family dinners and ski trips, and that was having the station practically to himself on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, when everyone else was out stuffing their faces or pretending to be religious.

One and a half days to get some actual work done. Not even his boss would get a chance to cheat him out of that reprieve! Although not for lack of trying on the commissioner’s part…

Of course Valjean would be pleased if he knew about the unusual change to Javert’s duty roster. The one and a half day gap marked ‘off duty’ meant that Javert would be home to attend mass with him and Cosette. But as much as Javert despised the ceramic effigies, he did not like the real thing any better. He had been made to attend mass as a kid in the orphanage. When he’d finally gotten away from that place and found a life in the law, he had turned his back not only on his childhood, but on religion, too.

Valjean knew about that, but even so Javert made a point of not bringing it up. Religion was one of the few remaining points of heated discussion between them. To Valjean and Cosette, religion and by extension Christmas, was important. The last thing Javert wanted was to spoil it for them both. So he had decided to ignore the omission in his duty roster and continue to work, the way he had done every Christmas since joining the force.

To avoid distractions by well-intending colleagues taken by the holiday spirit, Javert had locked himself in his office with a big thermos flask of coffee and the telephone records of a suspect that needed to be checked. The task of discerning patterns and repetitions in the numbers required a deep state of concentration, which Javert achieved rather easily and even relished. In fact, he could go over such files for hours on end, stopping only when he ran out of numbers or ran out of coffee.

Or when someone came in. Like now.

At the click of the door unlocking, Javert’s head snapped up. His eyes narrowed as he glared at the doorway like a wolf ready to pounce. He fully intended to verbally devour the intruder, until he recognised the man coming in and bit back on the less than polite words already forming his throat.

Commissioner Dupont sauntered in with the confidence of one who has entered the wolf’s den many times before. He stopped before Javert’s desk, regarded the strewn papers and sighed.

“Of course. I should have known you would pull a stunt like this.”

“Stunt?” Javert growled defensively. “I know this is not my case, _commissaire_ , but Fournier said it was urgent and the station is understaffed as it is.”

“So it is,” said Dupont, folding his arms before his chest, “and it should have been a little more understaffed as of half an hour ago, I believe.”

Javert scowled in reply. Flashing half a snarl, he bent over the lists of numbers and continued to work.

“Oooh, so you did notice!” Dupont sounded faintly amused. “Then why are you still here?”

“For this.” Javert tapped the list with his pen. “Our work does not stop because it is Christmas.”

“You are right. It doesn’t. But for the duration of tonight and tomorrow, that is not your concern, understand?”

Javert slammed his pen down. “As a matter of fact, I do _not_ understand! Monsieur, there is a pile of work to be done and not enough people to do it. I have _never_ asked for time off at Christmas. Not this year, not last year, not the years before that. So why was I taken off the duty roster all of a sudden?”

“Is that a serious question?”

“Yes,” he spat. At the quirk of Dupont’s brow, he added: “If this has to do with my personal life, I was already in a relationship last year, and you did not see fit to write me off then. I cannot see how that would have changed now.”

“But it has, Javert, it has! For one, you are now also living together with your partner. And Blanche from reception told me that when your daughter called the other day, she asked for her father before giving a name.”

Humbled, Javert fidgeted with the corner of a sheet. “Cosette and I get along well, but she is Valjean’s daughter, not mine.” That was true, but not true enough to say it without a sting in his chest. “Legally she isn’t,” he amended, looking away.

“Go home, Javert. Spend time with your family. I’m sure they will be delighted if you put them before work for once.”

“But these records—“

“Give Rouleau the list and your notes. He can finish it for Fournier.”

Javert stared at the papers, momentarily stunned. His professional instinct screamed that he should insist on finishing this before he left, but a part of him also wanted to go home and see the surprised smile on Valjean’s face.

“Do I need to make that an order, _commandant_?”

“No, monsieur,” Javert replied automatically. He gathered the papers in order, put his notes on top, got up and deposited the complete file in Dupont’s waiting hand.

“Good. Now don’t let me see your face until Boxing Day, understood?”

“ _Oui, mon commissaire,_ ” Javert said with a suitable dose of sarcasm.

Dupont chuckled. “Well then, off with you!”

It was barely half past two when Javert pulled up in the driveway. It felt odd to be home so early. He peered through the living room windows as he got out. Through the net curtains that hid the room beyond from cursory glances, he saw that Valjean and Cosette had put up the Christmas tree after he’d gone to work this morning.

It surprised Javert that it had taken them so long. Not that he minded – when he lived alone, he had never even owned any kind of decoration, Christmas of otherwise - but Cosette had been complaining for two weeks about how the house was so empty to the point of singing the first line of ‘Deck the Walls’ on auto-repeat. At the time Javert hadn’t thought it more than her standard childish nagging, but now he wondered if Valjean had deliberately delayed decorating the house after Javert had snapped that he categorically refused to be surrounded by gleaming balls and flashing lights for weeks on end.

Javert leaned heavily against the car. He had been tired when he’d said that, but that gave him no right to be so harsh to the people he loved. Cosette loved all the frilly decorations and bells and little angels. Valjean was more traditional, but he loved to see the girl happy and readily gave in to her girlish need for sparkles and bright colours. Javert could see the result even through the mash of the curtains.

“Three weeks at most, you arse,” he growled at himself. “You are barely home long enough to notice, but they love it. Why can’t you put up with it for _their_ sake?”

He sighed, locked the car with the remote and searched his pocket for the house key. When he opened the front door, he walked in on Valjean and Cosette putting on their coats. There was a brief and astonished silence before Cosette ran up to him and clung to his waist.

“Father! You’re home!”

“Now there is a surprise!” Valjean said, smiling the smile that Javert had hoped for. “I was just about to call you to ask whether you would be home for dinner tonight.”

The warm smile had lifted Javert’s spirits, but now he lowered his eyes in guilt, realising how close he’d come to having Chinese take away tonight and disappointing his partner in the process. “They gave me tonight and tomorrow off,” he said as he peeled Cosette loose. She only squealed and hugged him again.

Valjean’s smile became a grin. “Did you go willingly, or did they have to forcibly remove you from the station’s premises?”

“Well…” He couldn’t help but blush when he realised that hadn’t been a question at all. “I’m not used to this Christmas thing,” he muttered. Then he nodded at Valjean’s coat. “You were about to leave?”

“We were. I still need to get a few things from the store.”

“Groceries?”

“And some other things. Cosette and I were going to take the bus to the shopping centre, but if I could have the car…?”

Javert dug the keys from his coat pocket and handed them over. “Do you want me to come?” he asked, dreading the prospect. His apprehension must have showed, because Valjean chuckled and pecked him on the cheek.

“No need. The stores will be packed and the traffic murder. I will not do that to you.”

“Papa, can I stay home with Father?”

Valjean looked at Javert, who nodded. “Very well. Be good. I will be back as soon as I can.”

Javert gave his lover a quick kiss in the passing. While Valjean started the car and drove away, Javert hung up his coat and let himself be dragged into the living room by a very enthusiastic Cosette.

“Look, Father! Papa and I decorated the Christmas tree this morning. He did the lights and I got to put in all the decorations.”

“Did you now?” He forced a smile for her sake, but found that it came quite readily. The sturdy fir tree next to the couch looked nothing like that obligatory Christmas trees: the twigs higher up were practically empty while the lower branches, the ones Cosette she could reach easily, where cluttered with balls, angels, bells and school handicraft projects of the past four years.

“Papa said he was going to buy some wreath-shaped cookies to put in, like we did last year.” She clapped her hands and jumped excitedly. “Do you like it?”

He ruffled her hair. “Do you?” he asked, at a loss for a better answer. She nodded. “Then I like it, too.”

“It’s a pity that it’s just the tree,” she sighed. “We had a lot more decorations last year, and a big wreath on the door, but Papa said he can’t find those anymore.”

Javert stilled. He knew for a fact that there were three big boxes with Christmas decorations in the attic. What was now on display in the tree was not even the content of one box. He took a deep breath. “Valjean, you self-sacrificial little git…”

Cosette craned her head back. “What?”

“Nothing.” In a split-second, he reached a decision. He peered down at Cosette, gently squeezing her shoulder. “What I meant is that I think Jean did not search well enough for the rest of the decorations. Shall we go see if we can find them before he gets back?”

She ran up the stairs before he had finished his sentence. Resigning to the consequences of his decision, Javert followed her to the attic.

As he had suspected, the other two boxes were right where they had been all year. Nothing lost, nothing misplaced. He carried them back to the living room, where Cosette eagerly opened the flaps and began to dig around.

“Here’s the wreath!” she exclaimed, dragging out a big ornament with bows and bells and across the front the words ‘God Bless’ in gold leaf letters. Javert noticed the wreath itself was imitation-fir. He wished Valjean’d had the sense to buy an imitation tree, too. As it was, they’d be vacuuming needles for months.

“So, this goes on the front door?” he asked.

“Yep! On the outside. I’ll show you.” She sprinted into the hall and even before he could follow her, Javert felt a cold draft invading the house. “Here, Father. Right on that nail up there.”

Javert quickly searched the back of the wreath for the loop to hang it on, and with some effort flipped that over the nail.

“Just right!” Cosette cheered and darted back to the box for more while Javert closed the door.

For the next hour, the boxes yielded carefully wrapped glass balls; a smaller wreath that Cosette said had to go on the inside of the back door; little bells on sprigs of holly that she insisted were cello-taped to every door in the house; a curious advent candle display with a fan, three cherubs and two bells that hung over the candles from a pole in the middle (Cosette explained that when the candles were lighted, the fan would turn and make the cherubs go round and round, sounding the bells as they went); a box of glittery icicles that Javert refused to open because the glitter was even harder to get rid of than the fir needles; and two strings of lights in the shape of ice flowers. Among other things.

Javert sat on the floor among the half-unpacked boxes. None of all this meant much to him, but Cosette was delighted. She bounced about the room, telling him about how Papa had put this there last year and then the other thing had to go there.

“The lights have to go up along those windows,” she said. “But I don’t know how to hang them. Papa did that.”

Javert got up, pulled back the net curtains and scrutinized the window sill. Looking carefully he spotted the tiny hooks sticking out of the woodwork. They were painted over and barely visible, but evidently used to suspend something lightweight, like a string of ice flowers.

“I think I know how he did that, but I can’t reach that high. Cosette, could you fetch a chair from the dinner table?”

“But Papa says chairs are for sitting, not for standing.”

“Ah. So what did he use to get up there?”

She shrugged. “The ladder in the garage, of course.”

Which, if memory served, was hidden somewhere in the back behind a year’s worth of unused stuff that had accumulated in the same corner. “Valjean will be back soon and it takes too long to get the ladder,” he said. And he’d make a poor example as a parent if he’d let her see him break the rules, even if they were only house rules.

“You could lift me up so I can reach,” Cosette suggested.

Now there was an idea. “Little Cosette the Toddler, are you?” he jibed as he picked her up and settled her on his hip. She laughed, her face only slightly higher than his. He hoisted her an inch higher. “That is not going to be enough, is it?”

“No!” she giggled. “On your shoulders!”

“On my—? You little devil, do you have any idea how heavy you are? Or how tall? If I carry you on my shoulders, you will bump your head against the ceiling.”

Her mouth pulled into a wide, infectious grin. “I will be reeeeally careful, I promise.”

Javert couldn’t help but laugh. “All right then,” he said as he put her down and then crouched before her. “But don’t tell your papa or we will both be in trouble.”

“I won’t!” She climbed his back as high as she could before swinging each spindly leg over a shoulder. Javert felt his bad knee protest at the extra weight, but not enough to hurt. Once Cosette sat comfortably, he took hold of her shins. “Now hang on tightly,” he told her and slowly he pushed himself to a stand.

Cosette leaned over his head as he straightened, laughing like a jack-in-the-box and shifting her weight about as they both sought a good balance. Once they had found it, she felt much lighter.

“Easy now,” Javert cautioned. “Remember, you are up there with a mission.” He handed her the first string of lights and stepped up close to the window. “Do you see the little hooks along the top?”

“I see them.” She draped the lights over the hooks, with Javert taking a step to the side at her instigation. When the reached the last hook in the corner, there were no more lights on the cord and the plug dangled all the way down, well within reach of the nearest socket.

“Done!” Cosette announced proudly.

“Not yet. There are two strings. Do you want to hang them both?”

“Yes!” She leaned back, making him stagger a step. “Oh, but the other one’s on the floor…”

Javert nudged his foot under the string, but it slid off. “Right. Sit very still now.” She did, her hands clamped over his jaw as he crouched down until he could get a hold of the string with two fingers. Then he rose up again and gave the lights to Cosette. Reaching the second window was more difficult, as the couch was in the way, but he manoeuvred between the furniture to get her as close as possible. When the second string was in place, too, Javert sat down on the armrest of the couch.

“Ready?” he said, letting go of her legs.

“Ready!” And Cosette let herself fall backwards from his shoulders, onto the couch. He heard her bounce once on the cushions before she rolled off and ended up on the floor, giggling hysterically. “Again! Again!” she cried.

“Oh no. Not now. First we have that mess to clean up.”

Cosette clambered to her feet. “We’re not done yet. There’s still Papa’s nativity scene!” She ran to the boxes, but stopped before it, glancing over her shoulder at him. “I’m not allowed to touch it. Papa said it’s very fragile and I shouldn’t play with it.”

Javert looked into the big box and saw an old, worn shoe box hiding at the bottom. Carefully he took it out for a closer look. And nearly dropped it.

The colours of the cardboard were faded with age, but he instantly recognised the pattern. He had seen hundreds of not thousands of such boxes back when he was a prison guard. Every new inmate that arrived was given prison garb and special shoes without fastenings. Those shoes came in blue and red boxes, such as this one.

No longer trusting his hands, Javert set to box on the floor and opened the lid. He was not sure what he had expected, but what he found was not it. Inside, wrapped in soft paper, were little wooden figurines. He gently lifted one from its paper bed: a shepherd with a lamb over his shoulders. The cuts that had shaped it from the wood were coarse and the cheap paint flaked. Handmade, then. With limited resources. Javert felt his heart tighten as he regarded the little figurine. He ran a careful thumb over the shepherd’s white beard, noticing a similarity that could not have been accidental. Then his fingers found a carving on the unpainted underside of the figure. Dust and grime of years had all but filled the notches, but he could still make out what it said: ‘ _19eme an’._

Javert exhaled sharply, not sure whether to clutch the shepherd or let go. In the distance, he heard Cosette’s voice.

“Papa always puts them here.” She had cleared a big spot on the dresser. “It’s not a normal nativity scene because Papa always take the Baby Jesus out first, and then one figure each day until they are all up a few days after Christmas.”

 _A few days after…?_ Javert carefully lifted the top layer of figurines, counting them. And then count them again. With trembling fingers, he searched for Baby Jesus in the crib and turned it over. _‘1ere an’,_ the carving on the bottom said. 

_No…_

Two years ago, when he and Valjean had discovered there might be more than their history between them, Javert had pulled the man’s file and learned it by heart. To this day, he could still picture the page confirming Valjean’s parole, effected on December 27th.

He felt like someone had punched him in the stomach. This wasn’t a nativity scene as much as it was an advent calendar. Just not one for advent… Trying very hard not to let the girl see how badly he was shaking, he put all the figurines back in their box.

“Aren’t we going to put it up?” Cosette asked.

Javert shook his head as he set the box on the dresser. “No. It should be set up, but I think it is better if Jean does that himself.”

“Oh.”

She looked disappointed, but that could not be helped. There was a reason Valjean had not wanted her to touch the figurines, and it had nothing to do with them being fragile. They signified too much. Nineteen figurines in as many years. Time served for a crime he had been involved in, but hadn’t committed. Oh, the mistake was discovered eventually, and the State had expunged Valjean’s record and gave him a handsome sum as settlement, but that did not compensate for the loss. Nothing ever would. Except perhaps…

“Father, can I have hot chocolate?”

He looked down, at Cosette’s expectant eyes. “Your papa is a very lucky man to have you, you know that?” he said, tucking a strand of her long hair behind her ear.

She smiled and put her arms around him. “You have me, too,” she muttered into his shirt.

Overcome with something he could not name, he pulled her closer and let her cuddle up to him. For the whole three seconds that lasted before she bounced off at the sound of a car pulling up in the driveway.

“Papa’s back!” she cheered.

Javert gazed at the explosion of boxes on the floor. While a new draft of cold air blew in as Cosette opened the door for Valjean, Javert set to cleaning up the mess they’d made his in absence.

“Papa! Papa, did you see the wreath? Father found the rest of the Christmas decorations!”

“He did?” Valjean sounded genuinely surprised. “Why did he… ? Cosette, can you carry this to the kitchen for me? I need to get the rest of the bags out of the car.”

Javert shoved the empty boxes in a corner as Cosette passed by, dragging a huge grocery bag after her. Without a word, he picked it up and carried it the rest of the way, while Cosette went to see what else her papa had brought. Javert began to unpack the groceries, but hadn’t gotten as far as halfway by the time Valjean entered the kitchen with another bag of the same size.

“What is all this? Are you afraid we will starve?”

“Oh, I just want to try out a few new recipes. The rest is for the freezer, as a contingency plan.”

Javert chuckled. Only Valjean would think of buying extra food just in case his experiments went wrong.

“You made two people very happy today,” said Valjean and greeted his partner with a proper kiss. Javert savoured the sweet cold of Valjean’s lips, but then his face fell.

“I found the shoe box,” he admitted bluntly.

Now Valjean’s smile faltered, too. “Ah.”

Javert looked away and continued emptying the grocery bags. “I’m sorry,” he said at length.

“Why? None of it was your fault.”

“I’m sorry for being in the way.”

Valjean shrugged, putting a few cans on the top shelf. “You are not. I can reach just fine.” 

Javert glared at him. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Do what? Break your gloomy mood?” Valjean gave him a smirk. “Of course I did that on purpose. I can hardly sit still when you feel so down. Especially since you made the effort to come home early. And you even decorated.”

“According to Cosette, you had misplaced the rest of the ornaments.”

Two loafs of bread went into the freezer. “Well, I had to tell her _something_. She loves Christmas and I didn’t want her to know that you don’t, but neither did I want to scare you away by indulging her too much.”

Javert snorted. “I can bare it for her sake. And yours.”

“That is very generous of you, _mon coeur,_ ” Valjean said without the slightest trace of sarcasm.

“But I’m still not going to mass tonight.” Javert regretted his words the moment he’d said them. His shoulders sagged. “That… I did not mean that the way it sounded.”

“You did,” said Valjean. “That is all right. I know how you feel about church.”

Javert grimaced. “And I know how _you_ feel about it. I will not begrudge you that. Especially since these days mean more to you than for the average man.” He folded the empty grocery bag. “I left the shoe box on the dresser, although I can imagine you would not want me around when you take them out.”

“Papa, Father, can I have hot chocolate now?”

“In a minute, love,” said Valjean. “Javert is being silly and I need to tell him he shouldn’t be.”

“Silly?” Javert scoffed.

“Silly?” asked Cosette.

“Yes, silly.” He looked at Javert. “Despite the men we once were, we both live under the same roof and we are both part of this family. We share the good and the bad.” He wriggled his brows. “And the bed. So what makes you think I would not want to share _this_ with you?”

Javert made a  helpless gesture. “Seeing as that nativity scene is so intensely personal…”

“So are you.” With an impish smile, Valjean leaned in to kiss him. Javert was still blushing when he pulled away. “Look, last year, Cosette fell asleep during mass and she’s been nagging at me for days that she doesn’t want to go again.”

“I don’t!” Cosette piped in.

“So how about we make this a _quiet_ silent night and stay home?”

“Yes!”

But Javert frowned. “Mass is important to you. If you want to go—“

“Christmas is about family, Javert. About the Holy Family, and about our family. It isn’t that often that we can spend time together without one of us having to leave for work or school. So why don’t I make us a nice dinner, and we can have with hot chocolate and a movie for dessert?”

“No, I want hot chocolate now!”

Javert watched Valjean kindly chiding Cosette. _What did I do to deserve these two?_ He had to have done something right. Or perhaps God wasn’t as far away as Javert had always thought He was.

“Now, out of the way,” Valjean shooed. “Christmas dinner is not going to cook itself.”

Javert detached himself from the kitchen counter and silently nuzzled Valjean’s beard.

“Yes, I love you, too,” Valjean laughed. “Now get out of my kitchen!”

“Papa, can I watch?”

“Of course, love. But stay on the stool, because I will need a lot of space. Javert, hand me that cookbook, would you? The one on the right.”

“Papa?”

“Yes, Cosette?” Valjean replied as Javert handed him the book.

“What is a ‘self-sacrificial little git’?”

 


	8. Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Javert is late, and Valjean is getting worried. Very worried...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Darkhorse, who requested this. Sorry for keeping you waiting for so long!

Steam rose from the three pots on the stove, but Valjean didn’t register the delicious odours of his freshly cooked dinner. He set out three plates on the kitchen counter, called out to Cosette to come and wash her hands, pulled his mobile phone from his trouser pocket and dialled the only number he had on speed dial. It went to voicemail without ringing for the third time that evening.

"Looks like it will be just the two of us for now," Valjean said to Cosette as he filled two plates with chicken, vegetables and potato wedges. He piled the rest into one pot, hoping it would keep warm for a while.

"Is Father going to be late?"

"It would seem so." Valjean smiled at her, but it was forced.

He couldn't help but be a bit worried. Normally Javert told him if he was running too late for dinner: a quick call, text message, or just a missed call that had rung only once and told Valjean that everything was all right but that Javert didn't have the time for a proper message. Today, however, he hadn’t received anything of the sort.

He put the plates on the dinner table, and Cosette smacked her lips at the sight. Potato wedges with thyme were her favourites.

There was probably a very mundane reason why Javert hadn't called him. His partner was wont to forget the time; that much Valjean knew from experience. Likely something in his latest case had caught Javert’s interest and he wouldn't realise what time it was until well after dark.

Or so Valjean told himself. He would have called the police station to make certain, but after office hours the station automatically diverted all calls to the emergency dispatch, and he didn't have the direct number of any of Javert's colleagues. Not that he would have called them in anything but a life-threatening situation. No, until Javert turned his mobile phone back on again, Valjean would just have to wait.

“And then Camille said that that wasn’t fair, but then Marco got angry and they started to fight!”

“Did they now?”

“Yes, and then Madame Junot pulled them apart and…”

Valjean didn’t hear much of Cosette's story. Usually he was more attentive, but tonight he couldn't work up the concentration. Whenever he tried to listen, his mind wandered off, preoccupied with Javert's unannounced radio silence.

“You're not listening, papa!” Cosette complained.

“Oh? Oh, I'm sorry, petite.”

“You should listen. You always say that I have to listen to you, too!”

That was children's logic for you… “I apologise, Cosette. I was just wondering what could be keeping Javert so long."

She sighed in overdramatic exasperation. "Well, duh. How about his _work_?” Her tone was a near-perfect imitation of Javert's when he thought Valjean was fussing. "He's just off doing something more important than… than _having dinner_.” She gestured triumphantly at her plate, mimicking Javert's body language to go with the tone.

Despite his preoccupation, Valjean laughed. "Why yes, mademoiselle. I think you are quite right.”

He smiled when his exaggerated manners made her giggle, but it didn’t last. He did believe she was right, but he also knew the sort of things that Javert considered more important than having dinner with his family. Most of those things were not without danger. That was the downside of falling in love with an officer of ‘La Crim’: there was always a risk that Javert was injured in the line of duty; or worse.

Valjean quickly shook the thought and finished his meal. For once, Cosette had cleared her plate faster than he, and as a reward he allowed her to watch TV until bedtime. They had a rule against her staring at any kind of screen on school nights, but he did not trust himself to have the patience for her tonight, and she didn't deserve his increasingly edgy temper.

When he got up from the table, he checked his mobile again. No missed calls, no text messages. Of course not. Its vibration would have alerted him if there had been any. He dialled Javert's number again. It went straight to voicemail.

He cleared the table and loaded the dirty dishes into the dishwasher. At least, he attempted to. The plates caught behind the wrong pegs, he could not get the pots to fit in right, and the cutlery basket kept falling over no matter how he secured it. He muttered and growled as he went at it, his already thin patience diminishing by the second.

“All right, you win!" he yelled at last at the machine as he slammed it shut. It only hummed in reply, having started its cycle without detergent. Valjean couldn't make himself care. He would just have to run it again in the morning.

“Papa?” Cosette called from the living room. “Are you okay?”

He took a deep breath and counted to five before answering. “Yes, petite, I’m fine. I’m fine. Everything is going to be just fine…” He checked his mobile again; again in vain.

Children were not easily deceived. When he came into the living room, Cosette looked at him over a shoulder. “Are you worried?” she asked. “You're always mean to the kitchen machines when you worry,” she said, still half an eye on the cartoon she was watching.

He didn't have the stomach to lie to her. “I—I'm a bit concerned about what is keeping Javert. I had expected him home hours ago, that is all."

“So? Father is always late!” she bit accusingly.

“Not ‘always’, Cosette. ‘Always’ would be every night. He is often late, yes, but that is not the same as ‘always’.”

Cosette shrugged. Valjean didn't push the point. At her age, everything that happened more than once happened ‘always’, and everything that didn't happen often enough happened ‘never’. In a bad mood, she would even complain that she ‘always’ had to do this or that, regardless of the fact she had never done it before. Such inconsistencies annoyed Javert to no end, but under the circumstances Valjean didn't care to suffer them, either.

"It is time for bed, young lady,” he said with a glance at the clock.

“Awh, papa, it's not even dark outside!”

“Be that as it may, it is eight o'clock and tomorrow is a school-day. So, turn the television off and go upstairs to change for bed. I will be right up to help you brush your teeth."

Of course Cosette pouted like her life depended on it, but she did obey. Valjean didn’t follow her immediately, but instead retrieved his phone from his pocket again. Was calling once every half-hour too often? He decided it wasn't, and pushed speed dial.

Valjean told himself not to draw conclusions. The explanation could be as simple as Javert having forgotten to recharge the battery of his mobile. It happened to the best of them, didn't it? And a dead battery would explain why Javert hadn’t sent a message. Maybe he hadn't even noticed, because if he _had_ noticed, surely he would have called Valjean from the station's landline.

Yes, the must be it.

With a sense of relief, Valjean climbed the stairs to oversee his daughter’s Ritual of the Brushing of the Teeth. Cosette was convinced that smothering her toothbrush in toothpaste was adequate compensation for brushing no more than five seconds, and in the last few months her indignation when Valjean took the toothbrush and re-did it properly had become a fixed part of the Ritual.

When she was done, he ushered her to bed, tucked her in and read her a brief story. At the age of eight, going on nine, she was getting too old for that, but she insisted every night and Valjean didn't have the heart to deny her that little recourse to her early childhood.

Yet while he was reading, he did stop in the middle of the sentence when he heard a car outside. They lived in a quiet neighbourhood and cars driving by were far less frequent here than elsewhere in Paris. But the car passed by the house and didn’t pull into the driveway. Far more disappointed than he would admit, Valjean finished the story.

After turning on the light on the landing to appease Cosette, Valjean went downstairs. It was nearly half-past eight and still no sign of Javert. His fingers wrapped around the sleek shape of his mobile yet again, but he resisted the urge to make another call. He didn’t believe that another attempt would have more success than the previous ones.

Perhaps the television would take his mind off waiting. He turned it on, grabbed the remote, and plopped down on the sofa. He zapped back and forth through the countless channels. Prime-time television never had much to offer of what he liked.

With a ghost of latent interest, he stopped briefly at the local news channel. When he saw the footage they were showing, his heart skipped a beat.

The reporter was doing a live coverage of what seemed to be a suicide attempt. When the camera zoomed in, Valjean could make out the figure of a man on the roof of a multi-storey building. He held his breath, looking for the subtle signs and mannerisms he knew so well while his mind rehashed memories of one particular night, now two years ago. Surely Javert wouldn’t…

 _“We are told that the man is a financial expert at the Euronext stock exchange,”_ the reporter said.

Valjean breathed again and his mind cleared. His eyes had not deceived him: the desperate man was indeed a stranger. Even so, he said a quick prayer on the man's behalf.

He zapped through many tedious commercials until he came across a nature documentary. He wasn't particularly interested in the great variety of ants that inhabited the Amazon rainforest, but it beat any other program that was on tonight.

While he watched, he ignored the slight nausea that settled in his stomach. It had nothing to do with what he had eaten, and paying any kind of attention to it wasn't going to make it better. He was not adverse to taking medication to calm an upset stomach, but in this case pills wouldn't do any good. The only remedy for this queasy feeling was having Javert in his arms, safe and sound.

After the end credits of the ants, he stayed to watch the next documentary, which was a biology lesson for beginners on sharks. He recalled having seen parts of it a few times already, but he literally had nothing better to do.

He looked up when a car approached, but refused to get his hopes up until it stopped in front of the house and he heard its door open and shut. He was on his feet and smiling, when he heard a second car door. Alarmed, he ran to the window rather than the front door.

“God, please, do not do this to me,” he whispered as he peeked through the curtains. He both dreaded and was prepared to find that the car was a police car, and that two kind but severe officers had come to tell him that Javert would not be coming home tonight. Or ever.

But it wasn't a police car, and the people who had gotten out of it did not come to his door. It was just the neighbours who lived two doors down.

Valjean smoothed the curtains back and returned to his chair. His initial relief dissipated at the visions that plagued his mind. He knew that the only reason Javert would ever run late was if duty required him to. That was not abnormal; even Cosette had said so. But what if he had been called to an armed robbery, or a deranged lunatic threatening people with a knife or gun? What if shots were fired? Javert had once confessed that the only incident where he’d had to shoot a suspect in self-defence still haunted him. Yet that was not what worried Valjean. Javert was a good cop, experienced and professional, but wasn't there a saying that only the good die young?

He shuddered and forced himself to pay attention to the tagging of young sharks. _Just keep watching, keep watching and Javert will be home before you know it._ It was a trick he had learned in prison: keep focused on something small, and you will not notice how long time takes to pass. Almost like a personal time vacuum. It sounded crazy, but it worked.

Or at least, it had worked while he was serving time. Back then there had been very little to pull him from that focus. Now, however, he had Cosette to look after. And Javert. The thought of them pulled him from that state of mind in which he did not have to wait. Because he _was_ waiting, waiting for something he feared to lose more than anything.

At the fifth commercial break in less than an hour, Valjean got fed up with the sharks and the perfumes, the new cars and the remedies for imagined ailments. He turned off the TV and went in search of something else to occupy him. He checked his mobile again, called Javert against his better judgement, and only just kept from throwing his phone across the room when yet again it was the sterile female voice that answered him instead of Javert's deep tones.

The silence was unbearable. He turned on a classic music station on the radio. Perhaps some Bach or Mozart or Schubert calmed his mind. Perhaps the book he was reading…

But he could not read two sentences before the words on the page annoyed him as much as the music did. He flipped off the radio just as the newsreader announced that it was half-past ten. Almost as an afterthought he checked for missed calls on his mobile, but there were none.

He stared at his mobile. Maybe it wasn’t working? Maybe Javert had tried to call him, but couldn't get through? Before he could think it over properly, Valjean dialled his own number with their landline telephone. His mobile rang, exactly as it should. When he put down the landline’s receiver, the little ‘missed call’ sign appeared on the mobile’s screen. Nothing wrong there. That meant that Javert really never tried to call him. Or maybe he couldn’t…

Valjean swallowed hard. The nausea became harder to ignore now.

“Papa?” a small, sleepy voice asked.

He turned and found Cosette standing in the doorway, her doll clutched in one arm and the other hand rubbing her eyes.

“Oh, petite, what are you doing here? Did you have a nightmare?"

“I was waiting for Father to come and tuck me in,” she whined. "He always kisses me good night, even when he's home late.”

"I know, I know. But Javert is not home yet.” He kissed her hair. “Why don't you go back to sleep, and I will tell him to wake you when he is back, okay?"

Cosette muttered under her breath, but didn't protest when her papa steered her back up the stairs and into bed. She curled up under the covers and was asleep even before he closed the door.

Valjean dragged himself down the stairs, with every step more aware of what he had promised his daughter. What if he couldn't keep that promise? It was a thought that had crossed his mind before, on various occasions. Every day there was a small but very real chance that Javert would not come back to them. If that happened, when that happened, how would he tell her? Cosette had lost her mother when she was very young, before she came into his care. She would understand what he meant if he said that Javert was dead; that her father was dead.

He ran a hand over his face and bit his knuckles. “Please, _please,_ do not make me have to do that to her.”

To give his hands something to do, he made tea. He stayed in the kitchen and watched the kettle until it boiled. The steam that rose from its spout settled on the cold kitchen window, obscuring the darkness outside. The silence crept up on him. He wasn't used to silence. It had never been silent in prison, the flat where he had lived just after his release had been terribly noisy, and by the time he had moved to this house on its quiet street, Cosette had been with him already. She was with him now, he reminded himself, asleep in bed, just the way it had been during the years before Javert came into their lives.

But now Javert was a part of their family, and for the house to be this quiet when it shouldn't be was unnatural. Of course Javert had irregular hours and he was often late after his shift, but that had never made Valjean feel the way he did now, with his stomach tied in a knot and his heart beating too fast in trepidation.

Tonight something was different from other nights. A wrong kind of different. He had no idea why, but he couldn't shake that conviction and every second he didn’t know where Javert was weighed as much as those nineteen years in prison.

Somehow midnight came. The clock of the nearby church struck the hour, but still no word from Javert. Nothing short of desperate, Valjean made one last attempt to call him. Still no response. With heavy legs and an even heavier heart he made his way to the stairs. All the lights in the house were out, but he left the porch light on. Just in case.

Valjean went through the motions of showering, brushing his teeth and putting on his pyjamas. The bedroom stifled him for some reason, and he opened the window to let in some fresh air. He heard sirens in the distance. The first was a police siren, the second an ambulance. He wondered if perhaps they were for Javert, but he dismissed the thought as soon as it presented itself. Nevertheless, it lingered as he crawled under the covers.

Sleep didn't come quickly. In fact, it didn't come at all. The only light in the room was that of his alarm clock. It glared at him, imprinting every passing minute on his eyes in red light. He turned over to escape it, only to have Javert's empty pillow stare back at him instead. Without meaning to, he slid his hands underneath that pillow, and felt the soft fabric of Javert's nightshirt under his fingers.

“Where are you, mon cœur? What is keeping you?”

He caressed the cold fabric. It soothed him, if only a little. When eventually his hands stilled and his breathing deepened, he wasn't aware of it.

Suddenly he was roused from his shallow sleep by a nearby rumble. On instinct more than intention he sat up to listen. The rumble stopped, replaced by other noises. Only when he recognised the clicks of the front door opening and closing very quietly did he realise what they meant.

Valjean jumped out of bed without a conscious thought. All he cared about was the familiar rustling of a leather jacket being discarded and the rattle of a key ring with too many keys being dropped on the shelf beside the hat stand. He was down the stairs in a heartbeat.

There were at least half a dozen questions he wanted to ask, first and foremost ‘where have you been?’, but when Javert heard him come down and turned to look at him, all tonight’s pent-up anxiety transformed into something close to pity. He stopped on the first step of the stairs and met Javert’s gaze.

“What happened?” Valjean whispered.

Javert sighed wearily, sounding even more exhausted than he looked. He said nothing, but approached the stairs and wrapped his arms around Valjean’s waist.

Sometimes gestures were better comfort than words. Valjean gently returned the embrace and let Javert bury his face in his chest. For the longest time neither of them moved.

After what seemed like an eternity, Javert turned his head a fraction. “One of the other stations got a call reporting a suicide attempt this afternoon,” he said. “The guy stood on a roof and threatened to jump.”

Valjean stiffened for more than one reason. He silently encouraged Javert to continue by running his fingers through his lover’s greying hair.

“He refused step down, wouldn't talk to a shrink, wouldn't let any of the policemen near him. Then the officer in charge remembered something I had told him in confidence, and he called me to the scene. Of course the man didn't want to talk to me either, until I told him that we had something in common…”

Valjean held Javert tighter. Small wonder that news report had upset him so. He had thought it too close for comfort at the time, but apparently it had been closer still. For the second time, he recalled that night when he had allowed himself a late-night stroll while Cosette was on a school trip.

“He was so adamant to kill himself," Javert said. “I talked to him for hours, trying to convince him to come down. He said he had nothing left to live for, that there was no reason to go on. So I told him about you. About how a complete stranger had asked me what I was doing on the bridge, asked me if I was all right. And how that stranger had made me be all right, eventually.” He rubbed his face on Valjean's pyjama shirt. “Every time he spoke, it was as if I heard myself speak; the person I was when you found me. It was… it was frightening.”

Valjean kissed Javert's temple. “I can imagine,” he whispered, remembering all too well the man that Javert had been in those first months. Falling in love with him had not been easy, but somehow it had been as inevitable as spring following winter. “Did he step down?” he asked when Javert did not continue.

Javert sighed. “Not voluntarily. Few hours after dark, it got so cold up there that his legs were seizing up and he would have fallen if he stayed up there any longer. So in the end I managed to grab him and literally pull off the ledge."

“Then you succeeded.”

“He cursed me to hell and back.”

“Yes, but he was alive to curse you. He will come around. As I recall, you did not take too kindly to me at first, either.”

Javert said nothing, but neither did he let go. Valjean didn't make him. All that mattered was that his beloved was home, alive and safe in his arms. Now more than ever did he realise how special that was; that every moment they had together was a gift from God. He tightened his embrace once more. If Javert wanted to stay like this all night, Valjean would welcome it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thank you to esteven for beta-ing. Any mistakes still in there are mine :)


	9. Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Javert faces the most difficult task he has ever had to do. But he must. For Jean.

Javert paced around with steady, inquisitive strides. His keen eye picked up details of his surroundings, but he realised with dread that he had missed most of them the last five times he had passed through the aisles. Splashes of red assaulted his senses at every turn. Nauseating. Two decades of experience as a crime scene detective had made him believe that if he could stomach that, he could stomach this, too.

How wrong he had been…

He held his hands clasped tightly behind his back to hide the faint trembling of his fingers. He had arrived through those big, glass doors determined and with purpose, as always. Since then, the seed of anxiety in the pit of his gut had only grown, until his fortitude had dissolved into the hopeless mess he was now.

Another pass up and down the aisles made him no wiser. All what was laid out on the metal tables was unrecognisable to him. In his profession he cherished that emotional distance, but now that it was expected of him, now that it counted, he was at a loss. How could anyone see clearly among this sea of abominable red stains!

The people around him weren’t puzzled, for some reason. They moved from table to polished table, looking closely what they found before moving on to the next. Every once in a while, someone would nod at what was before him and call the assistant, who then formalised the matter. Many were in a hurry to leave again. Javert didn’t blame them. He wanted nothing more than to leave this place, go home and pretend it was a day like any other.

Only it wasn’t. Much as he wanted it to be, nothing was normal about any of this.

He took a deep breath to calm himself. The faint stench of decay filled his nostrils, but he willed himself to ignore it. Such smells were to be expected in places like these. He knew them well. They had never disturbed him so before, and there was no reason they should now.

A glance at the clock on the white wall above the doors told him he was running out of time. Three minutes. He had three minutes left to do what he had come to do. Three minutes to do what he hadn’t been able to for the last half hour. He made another round of the tables, but his eyes didn’t see what was displayed on them. He couldn’t force himself to focus if he tried. Too much red…

But he would have to. For Jean. Much as he dreaded this place, he owed it to his beloved Jean to see this through. He had promised he would and he would never break a promise. Not one he had made to the most magnificent man to have ever lived.

Yet this didn’t make his task any easier. He walked around one more time, but to no avail. The others had concluded their business here and left, one after the other, until he was alone with the rows of tables and their appalling content. And with the woman.

The clock over the door sprang to a minute past the hour.

“Found what you’re looking for, monsieur?” she asked with a tone of one who has become impervious to any emotion at all. He sometimes had that tone. Not now, though. He envied her for it.

“Not quite,” he said, shooting a brief glare at the tables in desperation. “I knew when I came in, but now I—I can’t seem to find…”

“What you see is what I’ve got, I’m afraid. If it ain’t here, I can’t help you. But if you want to take another look, do hurry. I should be closing the joint by now.”

“I know, I know!” Javert surveyed the long rows one more time, but still in vain. Cold sweat settled in his palms. “There’s just too much bloody red!”

“Well, what’d you expect?” Her big breasts heaved as she snorted, but then she shook her head. “All right, all right, I know that look. First time you do this?”

He tried to avoid her eye, but his frayed temper was too obvious even to himself. So he nodded. “Never bothered before,” he said, defeated. “Stupid of me. ‘Don’t know what you’ve got’, and all that...”

The woman raised a brow. “Better late than never, ey? Look, I won’t turn you out, but you can’t stay here forever. So, who’re you looking for?”

Javert blinked at her directness. “Pardon?”

“Who, monsieur. Wife? Sweetheart? Mistress?”

He felt himself pale just before his face began to burn. He swallowed. This never got easier. People’s reactions were so unpredictable.

“Partner,” he said at last. “Man, late fifties, gentle.” He sighed and looked away. “Loves gardening,” he added softly.

To his surprise, she only shrugged. “Sound easy enough, if you ask me. So what is the trouble then?”

“The trouble?” Javert regarded the long aisles and made a hopeless gesture. “He _hates_ red!”

At this, the woman burst out laughing. “No wonder you’ve been carrying on like you’re lost at sea! Right. If not red, then what?”

“White,” Javert said instantly. “Like his—Never mind.”

The woman smirked. “Wait here,” she said and bustled down to the far end of the first aisle. When she came back, she was carrying a small wicker basket with a handful unsightly, pale-green sticks pocking out. Javert wasn’t sure what to think, but before he could ask, the woman went to her counter, wrapped the basket in cellophane, sticks and all, and stapled a few white and green ribbons to it. Then, seeing his expression, she began to laugh again.

“They are snowdrops, monsieur. They’re green now, but they’ll will bloom white, I promise. If your man knows more about gardening than you do, he will recognise them at once, don’t you worry.”

Javert felt the blush on his face creep down to his collar, but at the same time a great relief washed over him. “Thank you, madame.”

“No problem,” she said, still smirking as she took his payment and opened the door for him. “And a happy Valentine to you both!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to write some Valentine fluff to make up for breaking hearts with 'Forever Autumn', but then Javert insisted he feels the same about Valentine's Day as he does/did about Christmas, and this was the result. ;P


	10. What Dreams May Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short drabble for esteven, based on a Tumblr OTP-prompt involving a princess dragon dream. It just screamed 'Family Feelings' AU to me, so here it is.

Dreams warp. One moment everything is solid if strangely out of proportion, and the next you are free-falling through the air and wondering whether or not you can fly this time.

As it turned out, in this dream Valjean couldn’t fly. He willed the air currents to catch him, the clouds to cushion his fall, but he just kept plummeting down faster and faster, towards a raging black river at the bottom of a canyon that hadn’t been there a second ago.

Was this how it had felt for Javert?

“Javert!” he screamed while the air rushing in crushed his lungs.

What if he died here? What if this wasn’t a dream, and he’d die? He couldn’t leave Cosette! Little Cosette who so loved it when he read that story about the dragon who guarded the princess - wait, did Cosette even own a book like that?

The river was suddenly only feet below him and terror knotted his stomach. “Javeeeeert!”

A dark-blue mass appeared underneath him - never mind that there was no space for anything between him and the water anymore - and lifted him up.

‘Of course he came’, said the little princess in a bright pink dress- who had appeared behind him out of nowhere - without opening her mouth. Valjean understood, and he smiled. He embraced what now appeared to be the scaly neck of a dragon. The dragon must have liked the touch, because it turned its head - which had big whiskers - and nibbled at his shoulder. Valjean chuckled, which made the dragon nibble harder.

And harder. So hard it shook him and the sky grew dark and the dragon and the princess were gone, yet he wasn’t falling. He wasn’t...

“Jean.”

Jean? Who was...?

“Jean!”

Jean? Oh!

Darkness became the glare of a bed light when Valjean opened his eyes. He squinted and turned into his pillow. Or would have, if not for the massive hand shaking his shoulder.

“Jean, awake up, will you?”

“Hmm?”

“You were dreaming again.”

He blinked and looked up at Javert, who hovered above him, propped up on an elbow. “I was?”

“Yes. And you were being quite noisy about it.”

“Oh. Sorry...” Valjean rubbed his eyes and tried to remember the dream. Beyond a few fleeting images that made no sense at all, he couldn’t. “Was I talking?”

“Yes, though you weren’t waving a fist around, which counts as a bonus.”

“Sorry,” he muttered again. “Won’t do it again...”

“Don’t make promises you know you can’t keep,” Javert chided gently as he combed his fingers through Valjean’s white hair. “I understand the whole sleep talking thing. I do that, too. But what I don’t understand is this princess dragon dream you had, or why on Earth I would be in it.”

Valjean lifted his head from the pillow and frowned groggily. “Princess dragon? I can’t remember a princess dragon...” He snuggled up to Javert as much as the mountain of blankets between them permitted. “I do dream about you a lot, mon coeur... so th’ sounds... ‘bout... sthzzzzzz.”

Beside him, Javert shook his head and got back under his covers. “Princess dragon! Of all things…” He sighed. In all honesty, there were worse things to dream about. He reached to turn off the light and pressed a soft kiss to Valjean’s forehead. “Bonne nuit, mon Jean.”


	11. Not Quite Average

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"When people are afraid, they become violent in their words and their deeds."_
> 
> A nasty incident at school urges Cosette to ask her parents how they met. They are less than forthcoming, but not for the obvious reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several people asked me how Valjean and Javert met in this AU. The answer, however, is far less fluffy than the previous chapters have been, and in truth this chapter might be better off rated 'M'. 
> 
> Warning for Javert’s excessive cursing (he has a reason), explicit homophobia, PTSD, attempted suicide, and mention of the aweful things police officers witness in the line of duty.
> 
> Edit: Now beta-ed. Was sorely needed. One of these days I'll develop patience and learn to stop posting 'hot off the press'... I hope.

It was a satisfactory average weekday night. Cosette had been reading in her room after school, Javert had been home late but no later than his family had become used to, Valjean had prepared a simple yet tasteful meal, and now the three of them sat together at the dinner table to eat. Indeed an absolutely average evening. Until Cosette ceased to prod her beans, glanced up wearing a worried frown, and asked:

“How did you two fall in love?”

Valjean stopped chewing and stared at her in alarm, whereas Javert nearly choked on a mouthful of Pinot. Belatedly patting his coughing partner on the back, Valjean swallowed his food and straightened his face.

“What brings up that question, petite?” he inquired with a strained smile.

Cosette gazed guiltily at Javert’s red face and then at her half-empty plate. “We started a family tree project in class today. You know, with parents and grandparents and stuff?”

Valjean tried to exchange a glance with Javert, but his beloved made a point of not meeting it.

“When I asked Madame Junot what I should fill in, Maurice and Camille began to say… uhm, bad things about you.”

“Bad things?” Valjean could imagine what it might have been. From the creases on Javert’s brow, what he was thinking of was worse still. “What kind of bad things, petite?”

Cosette sank in her chair and refused to look at either of them. “Maurice said… he said that you met in a bar where men do dirty things to each other. I told them that’s not true,” she added quickly, “but then they wanted to know how you did meet. And I didn’t know, so they went on and said that Father is only a policeman because of the uniform and the cuffs and the leather coat, and that you wear dresses and fishnet stockings…”

Her voice had trailed off to a faint whisper, but the last word was cut off as Javert exploded with furious indignation.

“The parents' whispering I can deal with, but this is too much! First thing tomorrow morning I’m going to that school and give that teacher a—!“

“Easy, Javert. You’re not helping. This was bound to happen at some stage.” Valjean tried to keep his expression open and friendly as he turned to his daughter. “Come, Cosette. Sit up. There is no need to be ashamed.”

“Madame Junot was very angry, too,” said Cosette as she slowly wriggled upright. She looked at her father. “They both got lines and Madame Junot told them she was going to talk to their parents about what they’d said.”

“That is a very adequate reaction of your teacher. Don’t you think so, Javert?”

Javert took a deep breath before forcing a single nod. Then he downed the rest of his wine in one go.

“But why did they say that about you?” Cosette exclaimed. “It’s mean and dera… derigotorial!”

“Derogatory? Yes, it is,” Valjean said. “We spoke about this before, remember? You, me, Javert, we are not quite the average family. The problem is that not all people believe that two men or two women can love each other as a man and a woman do. They think it is wrong and fear people like Javert and me. When people are afraid, they become violent in their words and their deeds.”

“I know, Papa! I know! People are mean to you and Father for who you are, just like they are mean to me because I call you Papa when you weren’t married to Maman. I know all that! But is it true?”

“Of course not!” Javert snorted.

Valjean hushed them both. “None of what your classmates said is true, Cosette. The only dresses in this house are yours, and Javert and I did not meet in a bar.”

“Then where did you meet?”

“That is none of your concern, young lady!” Javert snapped before Valjean could get a word in. “Finish your dinner. It’s nearly bedtime.”

“But Father, I don’t tell them the truth tomorrow, everyone’s going to think Maurice was right!”

“Nothing you say will convince them if that’s what they want to believe. Now eat!”

“But Father!”

“Javert, please.”

“ENOUGH!”

Javert’s voice boomed in the small room. Cosette cringed, tears coming to her eyes, and even Valjean averted his gaze in response to a habit he thought he had long since lost. He had to physically collect himself to take Cosette’s hand and comfort her in the gentlest of tones.

“It’s all right, petite. It’s not your fault. Have a few more bites if you want to, and when you have had enough, we will go upstairs to get you ready for bed.”

Valjean silently thanked the Lord that Javert did not contest him on this. It was rare for Javert to lose his temper so, but right now he could feel the burn of his partner’s anger. Still, the stark glare that he caught from the corner of his eye was not one of fury alone. He knew that look well, but under the present circumstances, it wasn’t prudent to mention it.

Cosette had put one more forkful of beans into her mouth to appease her father, but protected by her papa’s consent she quickly left the table and ran upstairs. Valjean followed her, leaving Javert alone at the dinner table, a motionless statue that didn’t acknowledge either departure.

Between brushing teeth, changing and a goodnight kiss, Valjean had tried to be honest with their daughter. Of course Javert still loved her, and of course the slanderous comments of her classmates were outrageous and false, but that didn’t stop people from saying it. Javert had to deal with such people too often in his work, which was why he had become so angry.

Or so Valjean told her. He already suspected what the real reason for Javert’s outburst had been, but even if he was correct, he had vowed not to tell Cosette. Not until Javert permitted it.

By the time he came downstairs, the dinner table had been cleared and the dishwasher was humming. A wordless apology. Valjean smiled to himself, but it faltered when he saw his beloved. Javert stood at the kitchen counter, hands braced on its edge, his back to the door. On the counter, the espresso machine gurgled fanatically.

“Cosette is in bed,” Valjean said softly, stating the obvious for conversation’s sake. “I told her you had a hard day at work.”

Javert straightened a fraction when the coffee machine beeped. “Then you lied,” he said without turning.

“A white lie to sooth her until we tell her the truth.”

“No,” Javert snapped. “I will apologise and beg her forgiveness, but I will not tell her.” He glared at Valjean. “And neither will you.”

It was a statement, a threat and a warning all at once. Valjean sighed.

“I know what I promised when you moved in, and I will keep that promise. But one day we will have to give her an answer.”

“No.” The coffee cup shook as Javert lifted it to drink.

“Mon coeur…”

“No!”

The voice was strong, but wide eyes and their bewildered gaze told a different story. A familiar one. Valjean sauntered closer and, very slowly, pulled Javert’s trembling body into his arms. The coffee cup fell to the floor and shattered.

 

_Night was ever truly dark in the City of Light, but this night would have been. Clouds hid the moon and the stars behind a thick shroud. The Parisians didn’t notice, too absorbed in themselves to look at the skies. Only a lone figure standing on the Pont-au-Change seemed to be straining to see the heavens. Valjean might have followed his example, had he not realised – unlike the other passers-by – that the man was standing on the wrong side of the bridge’s stone bannister._

_Valjean slowed, feeling the gnaw of worry that may or may not be justified. Many people had no qualms about sitting on the bridge or the parapets along the river quays. The height and the rushing water didn’t bother them. They didn’t bother this man, either, but from the way he went from craning his head to look up at the sky to looking down, into the black abyss that was the Seine, Valjean suspected that he was not there to enjoy the view._

_Rather risking foolishness than regret, Valjean approached the man._

_“Monsieur? Are you all right?”_

_At being addressed, the man jerked upright, staring over his shoulder like a deer caught in the headlights of the cars that passed behind them. “Yes,” he said tersely. “Nothing to see here. Be on your way.”_

_The standard phrases struck Valjean for two reasons. The first was that they were insincere; the second was that they identified the man as a police officer. Only now Valjean saw that the man’s dishevelled shirt had the markings of a uniform. He hesitated. His record had been expunged eight years ago, but even so he felt uneasy around police. But tonight he could not allow himself to give in to his apprehension. There was no doubt in his mind as to what would happen should he heed the policeman’s instructions. Intervention was in order, but in Valjean’s experience, police officers were a proud species. Too proud and too suspicious by nature to accept help from a stranger._

_“Monsieur le policier, forgive my intrusion, but my daughter ran away from me and I cannot find her. Have you perhaps seen a little girl come this way?”_

_Never in his life had he needed to lie. Never before had he resorted to such blatant untruths. The anxiety of having done so – and to a policeman, no less! – put a tremor in his voice. He was grateful for it, as it mimicked the anxiety he didn’t have for Cosette, who was safe and sound on a school trip._

_“A child?” the policeman asked unsteadily. “How old?”_

_“Not yet seven.” Valjean licked his lips. He saw that the policeman renewed his grip on the stone bannister, fingers that were slick with sweat the only thing between him and the river below. “Blonde hair, pink summer coat,” Valjean added as encouragement. “Have you seen her? She is about this high.”_

_As he spoke, he held his hand at the height of his hip; a gesture that the policeman could not see without turning. And the man couldn’t turn that far without swinging at least one leg over the bannister…_

_Which, eventually, he did._

_Valjean didn’t dare to let out even a puff of relief. It wasn’t over yet. Straddling the bannister, the policeman had hung his head, his features obscured by greying strands of long hair that had escaped the messy queue at the nape of his neck. In prison, Valjean had learned to recognise a defeated man. He was looking at one now._

_“Come, monsieur,” he said as he gently but firmly took the man’s arm. “It is better on this side.”_

_Exhausted and without protest or true cooperation, the policeman allowed Valjean to help him to the street side of the bannister, where he sagged to the pavement._

_“There is no child, is there?”_

_“There is,” said Valjean, “but she is safe.”_

_At this, the policeman sagged further, knees pulled up and his face hidden in his hands. Valjean knelt beside him, moving his hand along the man’s arm until it rested on the shoulder. Not all people shed tears over their sorrows, but they cried all the same. Valjean said nothing, only squeezed the man’s shoulder to show his understanding and support._

_He also nodded at a few curious onlookers to move on, attempting to prevent drawing crowd. No suffering should be reduced to a spectacle, so he shielded the huddled policeman from sight as best he could and for as long as need be. He had all the time in the world tonight._

_A blessing indeed, because where could this poor man go? Leaving him alone didn’t bear contemplation. Perhaps in time Valjean could take him to the office of the Préfecture de Police down the quay? Surely the man’s colleagues would care for him, or at least find him a safe place._

_As he was peering in the direction of the préfecture, Valjean spotted a woman who drew his attention. She was running down the quay, towards the Pont-au-Change, stopping repeatedly to address people she passed before running on. He followed her with his gaze and saw how someone pointed in his general direction. At once she crossed the bridge and ran towards him. As she approached, he noticed that she, too, wore a uniform, while over her arm she carried a coat that was clearly too big for her._

_“Javert!”_

_Under his hand, the policeman tensed._

_“Javert, thank God!” the woman cried as she crouched beside them. “We’ve been looking for you since you stormed off. When I found your coat on the parapet and I was afraid—“_

_“Leave.”_

_“—that you’d hurt yourself or—“_

_“LEAVE!” the policeman bellowed with surprising strength. “Leave me alone, Le Duc!”_

_“But the commissaire wants you to—“_

_“VA TE FAIRE FOUTRE!”_

_Valjean pretended not to have heard that, or the rest of the expletives that the unhinged policeman spouted at his colleague. Both the officer and himself had gotten to their feet by now, but still he didn’t let go of the broad shoulder, changing his grip to be ever-gentle but strong enough to keep the tall man from leaping at the policière’s throat._

_Valjean also pretended not to listen to the shouted exchange. He didn’t understand most of it, but what he did catch turned his stomach. A case had gone wrong; domestic violence ending in fatality. A young child. Valjean thought of Cosette’s happy smile and her exuberant hugs to protect himself against the gruesome details that singed the air as the two officers argued._

_The policière was trying to convince the officer to come with her, back to the Préfecture where Valjean had meant to take the man before she showed up. The policeman himself, however, made it abundantly clear that he would rather throw himself into the river after all than go with her. When she protested, fear evident on her face, Valjean needed both hands to keep the man from turning back towards the bannister._

_Every man had a breaking point. From what Valjean gathered, Capitaine Javert of the Paris police had severely overshot his._

_Valjean put one arm across Javert’s chest in the most natural gesture he could manage. The physical barrier between him and the policière seemed to calm him a fraction, but he could still feel the man shake._

_“You must be mad if you think I will just let you walk away in this state!” the policière cried. “The commissaire would not permit it. You need help!”_

_The officer’s reply consisted of a snarl and an unabashed description of what said commissaire should do with the various parts of his anatomy. “Seeing a shrink solves nothing!” he barked._

_“You wouldn’t know! You never talked to one even when you had to!”_

_Before another onslaught of curses began, Valjean firmed his grip. “Monsieur, how about I take you to your home?”_

_The unexpected audacity of a civilian breaking into the conversation momentarily stunned both officers._

_“It is late, monsieur. You cannot stay here, and if you do not wish to accompany your colleague, you are better off in a place that is familiar.”_

_“Protocol is that he sees a psychiatrist first,” the policière insisted._

_Javert snarled a ferocious and definite ‘no’._

_“Under the circumstances, may I suggest that an exception is to a mutual benefit.”_

_“It’s not,” she snapped at him before turning to her colleague. “Javert, I know it’s not easy right now, but please try to be sensible. You were about to hurt yourself. Badly. You shouldn’t be alone now.”_

_No family but ‘la police’, then. Valjean reached a decision._

_“I will stay with him, madame.”_

_Javert glared at him, opened his mouth to reject the offer, but Valjean gave him a look that encouraged the man to reconsider his options as well as his protest. Rage had kindled a fire in the officer’s pale eyes, but Valjean saw it die now, washed away by an intense, dreary and emotionless void. Valjean knew that void, and he couldn’t help but feel for the man._

_Now the situation had calmed somewhat, the policière began to realise that pushing protocol wasn’t helping. “All right. I’ll tell the commissaire that you went home and are under surveillance. But I’ll need to take your weapon.”_

_Having lost the will to fight, the policeman complied._

_“And your identity and telephone number, monsieur,” she said to Valjean. “Someone from the préfecture will be in touch with you. As soon as possible, but that may not be until morning.”_

_An old instinct sputtered, but looking at the policeman, Valjean shoved his misgivings aside._

_“Of course, madame,” he said, digging up a calling card and his passport from his coat, and handing them to the policière. “My name is Jean Valjean. I will stay with the Capitaine until someone relieves me.”_

_She scrutinized him and his papers, but then nodded. “Thank you, monsieur.” Her tone was quiet, genuinely grateful, even if her stance hardened as she proceeded to hail a taxi._

_Momentarily alone with his charge, Valjean glanced at Capitaine Javert, who seemed to have sunk into the semi-catatonic stupor of those who have seen too much. He endured Valjean’s grip without opposition. The streetlights cast shadows on his features, but the longer Valjean watched him, the more certain he became that he had met this man before. Or was that wishful thinking? Was the sense of familiarity merely because despite his frayed state of mind, the policeman was what Valjean considered ‘easy on the eyes’?_

_At the notion, he quickly turned away. Further down the bridge, the policière leaned down to give instructions to the taxi that had pulled over. Valjean began to steer Javert towards the car, but for the briefest moment, the man resisted being led._

_“Jean Valjean… It seems to me I have heard that name before,” he muttered before complying. It was all he would say that night._

 

“Cosette shouldn’t know,” Javert whispered into Valjean’s shoulder, as always dry-eyed despite the tremor in his limbs. “She is just a child.”

“An observant child,” Valjean whispered back.

Javert abruptly broke their embrace. Shards of porcelain crunched under his boot. “Don’t be ridiculous, Jean! What good would it do her to know?”

“That depends,” Valjean replied. “Should she know about how I visited you daily for weeks, bearing your ranting for hours on end because you were beside yourself? That you tried to take your life another two more times after the bridge? That you called me because it would have been the end of your career if anyone at the préfecture found out how far you had fallen?” He held out his arms in invitation. “Should she know about the post-traumatic stress disorder you suffered from and that still gives you nightmares? Or the severe depression that never healed completely?” He ran a tender thumb over Javert’s cheek. “Oh, mon amour, I never meant to suggest we should tell Cosette such details. I agree that it is better she doesn’t know them.”

“Good,” Javert muttered, leaning in Valjean’s touch ever so lightly.

“Yet there is a broader truth that I feel we should tell her. There is no harm in her knowing that we met in the street, quite by accident. That we made a connection over a faint recognition, but not realised that our paths had crossed years before.”

Javert broke away and took a cleaning cloth from the cabinet beneath the sink. “Can’t do that,” he said, shaking his head. “Then she will want to know where that was.”

“She already knows that I served time in prison,” reasoned Valjean, “and also that you worked in one when you were younger. She is quite smart, you know. She can add one and one.”

“Her parents met in prison,” Javert scoffed. “I fail to see how that is an improvement over the gay bar story.”

Valjean grinned. “Yes, prison garb is so much less becoming than fishnet stockings.” He chuckled at Javert’s appalled expression. “Although you look dashing in whatever uniform you wear, mon coeur.”

Javert growled, but permitted his lover to steal a kiss. “I wouldn’t be wearing this uniform, if not for you,” he said.

“Is that so?” Valjean purred. “I would love you no less without it. Take it off and I will prove it.”

Javert snorted as he crouched to clean up the broken cup and spilled coffee. “Don’t belittle it, Jean. You know what I mean.”

Oh, he did. He did, and he cherished Javert’s acknowledgement and awkwardly expressed gratitude all the more because he knew. Moments such as these took the sting from the memories of the verbal and even physical abuse that they’d had to overcome to get where they were now. Being together hadn’t always been this comfortable, but what he and Javert shared was more than worth it. They were a real family now, and their daughter should be allowed to know that much.

He watched as Javert mopped up the last of the coffee and tiny shards and deposited the dirty cloth in the bin. Then cupped his beloved’s face in both hands.

“Come morning, may I satisfy our daughter’s need for the truth by telling her that we met by accident and that our relationship developed from there?”

“No,” Javert answered with conviction.

“No? But—?”

“I will tell her that. I owe her that much.” He placed a careful, slow kiss in Valjean’s palm. “And you. I cannot begin to express how much I owe you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: the incident that (nearly) sent Javert over the edge was inspired by an interview with a policeman suffered severe PTSD in the line of duty and the situation that broke him. 
> 
> Police officers, soldiers, rescue workers: my respect for the people who deal with the worst of mankind for a living knows no bounds. Their ability to carry that burden, however, is not boundless. They deserve our respect while they do their work, but more than that they deserve our help and support when that work breaks them.


End file.
